THE  1  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


AND 


OTHER     POEMS. 


BY 


S.   A.  BARRETT 


NEW-YORK: 
CADY     AND     BURGESS, 

No.    60   JOHN    STREET. 
MDCCCXLIX. 


1 

to 

CONTENTS. 

•  • 

MAINTONOMAH.     PART  I., 

PAOB. 

.       9 

MAINTONOMAH.     PART  II.,    .        '\  -  '  •  \ 

21 

MAINTONOMAH.     PART  III.,      .          . 

.     33 

THE  FORSAKEN,            .          .  •      . 

48 

Tn 

.     51 

5      •                .._.-.                 7*' 

SONG  TO  MARY,            .       '.-.••     V        . 

52 

To  AN  EARLY  VIOLET, 

•i^      .     53 

A  THOUGHT,        .  .  .    -:  i   •     ^    ' 

54 

RURAL  LIFE,           .... 

.     55 

MAY,           .      .    ."   •      .{. 

56 

SONG  TO  MARY,       .... 

.     57 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A.  I.  UNDERHILL,  OF 

N.YORK,  58 

STANZAS, 

.     60 

STANZAS,    ...... 

61 

SONG,    .          .          .          .          .          . 

.     62 

VI  CONTENTS. 

- 

PAGE. 

To  MARY,  .......         63 

THE  MAID  OP  MARLBORO',      .          .          .          .64 

GTAILY  O'ER  THE  WATERS,  ...         67 

STANZAS,        .          .          .          ...          .          ,69 

LINES,        .          .          .          .         .          .          .         71 

HOW  IS  THE  GrOSPEL  PREACHED  ?  .         .72 

BEAUTY, .73 

FRAGMENT,     .......     74 

FIRST  LOVE,       ......         76 

A  THOUGHT, 77 

SERENADE,          ......         78 

FRAGMENT,    .......     79 

CHILDHOOD,          ......         80 

THE  POET,  ....  .81 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BROTHER,  .          .         83 

FRIENDSHIP.     PART  I.,  .         .          .          .          .86 

FRIENDSHIP.     PART  II.,       ....          97 

AFAR  FROM  THEE,          .....  113 

SONG,- 117 

IMMORTALITY,          .          .         .         .          .          .119 

To 121 

ASPIRATION,  .......  122 

STANZAS, 124 

WOMAN,  .  125 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

x 

PAGE. 

PRAYER  OF  REASON,  .....  126 
GOD'S  HALLOWED  DAY,  .....  128 
SONG  OF  THE  ENTHUSIAST  TO  HIS  WIFE,  .  131 
COMPLAINT  OF  THE  MURDERED,  .  .  .  134 
To  A  FLEA  ON  A  LADY'S  DRESS,  .  .  .  138 

To  *  *  *  * , •       .141 

THE  DISCARDED  LOVER'S  APPEAL,  .  .  144 
VALEDICTORY  LINES  TO  EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED 

AND  FORTY-ONE,  .....  147 
CONSTANCY,   .......  156 

To  *  *  *  *  , 159 

LOUISE,          .......  160 

To  *  *  *  *  , 166 

A  SKETCH,     .......  168 

DEATH,      .......       169 

CHARITY,       .......  171 

WASHINGTON,      ......       173 

"  OUR  COUNTRY'S  QUARREL,"  .          .          .  175 

BALLAD,     .          .          .          .          .          .          .        180 

BALLAD, 182 

POVERTY  vs.  RICHES,  .....  184 
THE  Music  OF  THE  GRINDING  SHOE,  .  .  186 

To  PARENTS, 188 

SONG, 190 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

To  SLAVERY, 192 

RURAL,  PICTURE,  .....  195 
WOMAN'S  INFLUENCE,  .....  197, 
To  MY  SISTER  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  DAUGHTER,  199 

To  MRS.  E  ***** , 201 

To  MRS.  E  ***** ,  .205 


MAINTONOMAH 

PART    FIRST. 


They  waste  ns  ;  ay,  like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away  ; 

And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go, 
Towards  the  setting  day, 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 

Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. — BRYANT. 


THE  forest  legends  of  our  land, 

Tho'  wild  and  sad,  have  yet  a  charm : 
Traced  by  Tradition's  faithful  hand, 

They  seem  with  Truth's  own  fervor  warm  ; 
For,  blended  with  reality, 
They  take  the  hue  of  history, 
And,  handed  down  from  age  to  age, 
Live  long  on  memory's  mystic  page. 
Such  legends  I  have  listen 'd  to, 

In  boyhood's  hour,  with  keen  delight ; 
And  still,  before  my  mental  view, 

They  rise  as  vividly  and  bright, 
As  when  I  heard  my  grandsire  tell 

The  self-same  stories,  years  ago  : — 


10  MAINTONOMAH. 

God  rest  his  aged  ashes  wellr 

Now  sleeping  in  the  valley  low  }< 
When  he  was  young,  the  forest  men 

"Were  moving  toward  the  setting  sun  ; 
Like  lions  hunted  to  their  den, 

Still  loth  to  own  the  battle  won. 
He  was  no  warrior  : — yet  would  dwell 

On  fearful  scenes  with  much  delight, 
When  he  could  hear  the  savage  yell 

Burst  through  the  silent  gloom  of  night. 
He  often  spoke  of  Anne's  war, 

And  of  the  lovely  Horican,* 
Where  Quebec's  hero,t  from  afar, 

Disgraced  humanity  and  man  ! 
He  knew  of  many  Sachems  great, 

Who  famous  were  in  days  of  yore  ; 
He  loved  their  stories  to  relate, 

And  would  rehearse  them  o'er  and  o'er. 
When  Night  her  sable  curtain  drew, 

And  wintry  winds  swept  thro'  the  vale, 
And  snow-clouds  o'er  the  mountains  flew, 

He  told  to  me  this  simple  tale. 
But  first  he  said,  as  he  drew  nigh  • 

The  genial  hearth-fire,  blazing  high — 
"  Remember, — many  a  weary  day 

*  Horican — Lake  George — the  Indian  name, 
f   Quebec's  Hero — Louis  De  St.  Veran,  or  the  Marquis  of  Mont- 
calm.    Alluding  to  the  massacre  at  Fort  Henry,  1757. 


MAINTONOMAH.  11 

On  Time's  swift  wing  hath  passed  away, — 
Ay,  half  a  •century  has  gone, 

Since  I,  myself,  the  story  heard  ; 
Therefore  do  not  expect,  my  son, 

That  I  can  give  thee  word  for  word." 

ii. 
'Twas  pensive  twilight ;  and  the  sun  had  set 

Behind  the  woody  hillocks  of  the  west ; 
No  sound  was  heard,  save  where  a  rivulet 

Rushed  thro'  a  grotto  to  the  Hudson's  breast. 
The  husbandmen  had  to  their  homes  retired  ; 

The  beasts  were  slumbering  on  the  verdant 

mead ; 
One  only  torch  a  cabin  window  fir'd, — 

And  through  the  gloom  a  feeble  lustre  shed. 
The  moon  arose,  and  with  her  borrow'd  light 

Threw  silvery  brightness  o'er  a  silent  world  ; 
The  stars  appeared,  to  gild  the  brow  of  Night, 

And  transient  meteors  thro'  the  air  were  hurl'd. 
Then  came  a  man  from  out  the  forest  shade, 

And  knelt  beside  a  grass-grown  sepulchre  ; 
His  solemn  manner,  and  his  voice,  betrayed 

At  once  his  object  and  his  character. 

in. 

"  Grhost  of  my  father  !"  cried  the  chief, 
"  I  come,  to  bathe  thy  tomb  with  grief ; 


12  MAINTONOMAH. 

From  great  Manitto's  peaceful  throne, 
Look  down  and  bless  thy  only  son. 
Full  sixty  summers  have  passed  by, 
Since  white-men  heard  thy  battle-cry, 

And  quailed  beneath  thy  blow  ; 
Thou  wast  the  foremost  in  the  fight, 
To  wing  the  arrow  in  its  flight, 

And  strike  the  hated  foe  !" 
I  heard  : — and  curiosity 

O'ercame  unmanly  fear, 
And,  stepping  lightly  o'er  the  lea, 

I,  unperceived,  drew  near. 
His  form  was  bending  to  the  ground, 

His  eyes  were  streaming  fast, 
He  muttered  an  unearthly  sound, 

Such  as  might  seem  his  last. 
An  Indian's  ear  is  never  dumb, 

Except  it  be  in  death  ! 
An  Indian's  bow  is  ne'er  unstrung, 

With  arrows  in  his  sheath. 
I  trode  as  lightly  o'er  the  grass, 

And  as  elastic,  too, 
As  in  the  gloomy  wilderness, 

The  prowling  panthers  do  ; 
But,  as  I  drew  still  nearer  by, 

He  suddenly  arose, 
And  cast  on  me  a  piercing  eye, 

Still  moisten'd  with  his  woes. 


MAINTONOMAH.  13 

I  stretched  my  hand  high  in  the  air — 

He  caught  the  peaceful  sign, 
And  straight  returned  it,  standing  there 
Beneath , the  fair  moonshine. 

IV. 

' '  Son  of  a  Pale-face  !  fear  me  not — 
I  come  in  peace" — he  said, 

II  To  see  the  hill,  the  stream,  the  grot, 
The  hallow'd  mound  and  holy  spot, 

Where  Maintonomah's  laid. 
My  head  is  white  with  many  years, 
Mine  eyes  are  dimm'd  by  many  tears, 

My  sinews  nerveless  grow  ; 
My  tomahawk  is  buried  deep, 
Beyond  the  mountains  high  and  steep, 

Where  Erie's  waters  flow  ; 
And  I  have  hither  come  to  shed 
My  last  tears  on  my  father's  head." 

v. 

"  A  weary  distance  thou  hast  come, 
Poor  Heathen  !  from  thy  forest  home, 

To  visit  this  lone  mound," 
I  said — and  touched  it  with  my  foot  : — 
Swift  as  a  bolt  from  heaven  shot, 
And  with  a  voice  of  thunder  sound, 
He  threw  his  hand  against  my  breast ! 

2* 


14  MAINTONOMAH. 

And  sternly  said — ' '  Pale-face  !  desist — 

This  is  my  fathers  grave  ! 
By  every  tie  that  drew  me  here, 
By  all  things  that  I  hold  most  dear, 
And  by  Manitto's  self,  I  swear 

No  insult  shall  it  have, 
While  I  have  nerve  to  face  a  foe, 
Or  strength  to  draw  a  steady  bow  ! 
Like  all  of  thy  accursed  race, 

Thou  hast  no  reverence  for  the  dead, 
But  wouldst  profane  their  resting-place 

With  reckless  word  and  careless  tread ! 
Not  so  the  red-men — every  mound 
That  hides  their  dead,  is  holy  ground  ; 
And  sacred  as  the  memory 
Of  those  who  'neath  them  lowly  lie  ! 
Didst  call  me  poor  ?     Yes,  I  am  poor, 

Since  cursed  white-men  fill  the  land, 
-    Where  lived  the  native  chiefs  of  yore, 

And  warriors  rose  at  their  command  ! 
The  very  soil  on  which  ye  tread 
Has  been  the  nurse  of  Indian  bread  : 
These  rugged  hills  around  you  high, 
Have  echoed  to  our  battle-cry  ; 
Or  rung  with  mirth,  their  leafy  bowers, 
When  happiness  and  peace  were  ours. 
That  river,  glittering  like  dew, 

Beneath  the  moonbeams  mild, 


MAINTONOMAH.  15 

Full  often  bore  the  light  canoe, 

When  Teton  was  a  child  ! 
And  dost  thou  think  I  can  forget 

The  scene  of  all  my  joy, 
When  fortune  smiled,  and  I  was  yet 

A  happy  Indian  boy  ? 
Or  dost  thou  think  this  hallow'd  spot, 
My  father's  grave,  is  worship'd  not  ? 
Or  e'er  can  be  by  me  forgot  ? 
No !  the  Great  Spirit  bade  me  come 

And  weep  upon  this  mound, 
Ere  I  can  see  the  red-man's  home, 

The  Happy  Hunting-ground !" 


VI. 

"  Although  the  homage  paid  by  thee, 

As  nothing  to  the  dead  must  be  ; 

Yet  it  may  soothe  thy  spirit  some, 

To  visit  thus  thy  father's  tomb  ; 

And,  as  a  part  of  thy  wild  faith, 

May  smooth  the  rugged  path  to  death  ; 

For,  when  this  pilgrimage  is  made, 

Thy  last  debt  to  thy  sire  is  paid. 

Few  Christians  such  examples  prove 

Of  piety  and  filial  love  ; 

Tho'  boasting  as  serener  heart, 

Than  thou — rude  Heathen,  as  thou  art !" 


16  MAINTONOMAH. 

VII. 

He  heeded  not  what  I  was  saying, — 

Adown  the  track  of  memory 
His  spirit  pensively  was  straying  ; 

And  he  continued,  randomly — 
"  The  white-men  thought  the  red-men  fools,* 

And  took  them  o'er  the  waves  ; 
But  great  Manitto  gave  them  souls, 

And  they  can  ne'er  be  slaves  ! 
List,  Pale-face  ! — he  who  lies  below 
The  summer's  heat  and  winter's  snow, 
Beneath  this  cold  and  silent  clod, 
Once  in  the  front  of  battle  trod, 

Chief  of  a  thousand  men  ! 
Wise  at  the  council-fire — tho'  young, 
And  mild  in  peace — in  battle,  strong 
As  cougar  in  his  den  ! 
The  youthful  maidens  loved  him  well ; 
The  wizard  prophets  burst  the  spell, 

To  pay  him  homage  due  : 
The  young  men  of  his  tribe  would  try 
To  emulate  his  bravery, 

In  deeds  of  daring,  too. 
Yes :  such  was  Maintonomah,  when 


*  Alluding  to  the  circumstance  of  Indians  being  kidnapped,  taken 
to  the  West  Indies  and  sold  as  slaves ;  but  who  preferred  death, 
rather  than  captivity  and  labor. 


MAINTONOMAH.  17 

The  Yengese*  and  the  DutchemeirK 

Were  swarming  to  this  soil. 
Where  first  the  rising  sun  we  view, 
Beyond  those  mountains  far  and  blue, 
There  doth  a  limpid  river  flow, 
Near  which  they  laid  the  forests  low, 

And  did,  like  beavers,  toil. 


VIII. 


A  powerful  tribe  dwelt  in  that  land  ; 
A  mighty  chieftain  held  command 
Of  warriors,  num'rous  as  the  sand 
Upon  the  Salt  Lakes'  endless  strand. 

He  saw  his  hunting-grounds  destroy 'd  ; 
He  felt  his  native  rights  annoy'd  ; 
He  knew  that  his  young  men  were  slain 

By  those  intruders  from  afar  ; 
He  knew  his  squaws  were  captives  ta'en, 

And  he  resolved  on  war  !" 


IX. 

Here  Teton  paused,  and  looked  around 
Upon  the  woods  and  on  the  ground  : 
Grazed  long  and  silent  at  the  moon, 
Which  full  upon  his  visage  shone. 

*  Englishmen.  f  Dutchmen. 


18 


MAINTONOMAH. 


'Twas  then  I  mark'd,  with  some  surprise, 
The  calm  expression  of  his  eyes, 
Which  had  so  late  flashed  livid  fire, 
Like  angry  serpent's,  in  his  ire  ! 
His  head  was  bare,  his  snowy  hair 

Hung  in  a  scalp-lock*  from  its  crown  ; 
And,  standing  in  the  moonlight  there, 
His  dignified  and  solemn  air 
In  all  its  native  grandeur  shone  ! 
His  bow  was  o'er  his  shoulders  thrown, 

His  wampum  was  around  him  tied, 
A  blanket  hid  his  swarthy  zone, 

And  a  long  knife  hung  at  his  side. 
Still  as  the  rocks  around,  he  stood, 

Deep-musing  on  untold  events  ; 
"When,  sudden  as  the  foaming  flood 

Pours  o'er  its  broken  battlements  ! 
He  turn'd  to  me,  and  said — "  Pale-face  ! 
Thou  art  one  of  a  hated  race  ! 
You  grasp  at  more  than  you  can  hold  :. 
You  own  the  land,  I  have  been  told, 

Beyond  the  Great  Salt  Lake  : 
But  the  Great-Spirit  of  your  tribe 
Made  your  hearts  big,  and  they  imbibe 

The  venom  of  a  snake  ! 

*  The  Indian  Warrior  shaves  his  head,  except  the  crown,  from 
which  depends  the  scalp-lock. 


MAINTONOMAH.  19 

X. 

Hast  thou  e'er  seen  the  sun  arise  ? 
Didst  trace  his  course  along  the  skies, 

And  see  him  set  at  even  ? 
Know,  all  the  land  he  travel'd  o'er 
Between  the  east  and  western  shore, 
From  where  Atlantic's  thunders  roar, 
To  where  Pacific's  billows  pour, 

Was  to  the  red-men  given. 
Our  hunting-grounds  were  fill'd  with  game, 

Our  lakes  with  fishes,  too, 
Until  the  cursed  strangers  came 

Here,  in  the  Big-canoe. 
Then  were  the  lofty  forests  fell'd  ! 
Then  were  the  timid  deer  compell'd 
To  seek  a  shelter,  where  ne'er  dwell'd 

A  single  deer  before  ; 

Where  nothing,  save  the  wolfs  long  howl, 
The  serpent's  hiss  and  cougar's  growl, 

Was  heard  in  days  of  yore  ! 

XI. 

Manitto  made  the  world,  'tis  said  ; 
Grave  his  red  children  corn  for  bread, 
Told  them  to  hunt  the  woods  for  deer, 
The  lakes  for  fish — and  placed  them  here. 

Why  should  I  tell  of  what  befell 


20  MAINTONOMAH. 

My  father  and  his  men  ? 
Why  on  the  subject  longer  dwell, 

Or  speak  his  name  again  ? 
For  .why  ? — because  I  deem  it  right 
To  throw  a  sunset-gleam  of  light 

Upon  our  history  : 
I  am  the  last  of  all  my  race  ; 
There  lives  no  being  who  can  trace 

A  kindred  drop  in  me  ! 
And  hence  the  story  of  my  grief, 
Of  Maintonomah — mighty  chief, 

Depends  alone  on  me  : 
And  for  my  spirit's  own  relief, 

Pale-face  !  I  tell  it  thee." 


PART    SECOND. 

I. 

'TWAS  summer  eve  ;  the  paly  moon 

Upon  the  placid  river  shone, 

And  silence  reign'd,  save  where  the  rill 

Was  murmuring  adown  the  hill, 

Or  where  the  wakeful  whip-poor-will 

Pour'd  its  loud  note,  so  wildly  shrill. 

No  boys  were  seen  upon  the  lawn, 

Nor  warriors  smoking  on  the  green  ; 
All  to  their  wigwams  had  withdrawn, 

And  stillness  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 
I  laid  me  down,  but  could  not  sleep  ; 

I  felt  a  strange,  foreboding  dread  ; 
My  father  lay  in  slumber  deep — 

I  had  no  mother — she  was  dead. 
How  solemn  was  that  midnight  hour, 
When  restless  fancy's  magic  power 

Was  busy  in  my  mind  ! 
I  started  at  each  trifling  sound, 
I  gazed  along  the  moon-lit  ground, 

And  listen'd  to  the  wind. 
As  thus  I  lay,  I  something  heard, 
At  which  my  life-blood  quicker  stirr'd  ! 


22  MAINTONOMAH. 

II. 

Was  it  the  sighing  of  the  breeze 

Among  the  tall,  green,  forest  trees  ? 
Was  it  the  panther's  plaintive  cry, 
Reverberating  awfully  ? 
Was  it  the  gaunt  wolf's  mournful  howl  ? 
Or  idle  screeching  of  the  owl  ? 
Was  it  the  barking  of  the  fox, 
Far  from  his  cavern'd  den  of  rocks  ?  . 
No  : — it  was  not.     A  human  voice, 
Alone,  alarmed  me  with  its  noise  ! 

in. 

Upon  a  little  point  of  land, 
Projecting  from  the  narrow  strand, 
Three  human  forms  I  now  espied, 
And  all  their  movements  closely  eyed. 
One  stood  apart — the  other  two 
Drew  on  the  shore  a  light  canoe. 
That  done,  they  cross'd  yon  purling  rill, 
Walked  slowly  up  the  steepy  hill, 
And  sought  our  camp— where  all  was  still. 

IV. 

I  press'd  my  father's  hand  ;  he  rose — 
u  Does  Teton  scent  approaching  foes?" 
"  My  father's  ears  are  very  good, 
Can  they  hear  nothing  in  the  wood  ?" 


MAINTONOMAH.  23 

"  Hugh  !"  he  exclaim'd,  and  gave  a  sign, 
And  many  a  warrior  of  his  line 

Rose,  at  the  well-known  sound  : 
They  gathered  near  our  wigwam  low, 
Each  with  his  tomahawk  and  bow, 

And  circled  him  around. 

v. 

The  strangers  halted  on  the  plain, 
Threw  up  their  hands — approach'd  again, 

With  forms  erect,  and  slow  ; 
My  father  stepp'd  before  his  men, 
Return'd  the  sign  of  peace — and  then 

Each  party  bended  low. 
The  one  who  seem'd  to  be  their  chief 
Came  forward,  and  in  language  brief, 

Explained  their  visit  thus — 
"  We  come  as  friends,  with  naked  hands, 
Into  our  happy  neighbor's  lands  ; 

Expect  no  harm  from  us  : 
We  wish  to  taste  your  bread  and  meat, 
To  talk  around  your  council-seat, 

And  hear  what  may  be  good  : 
For  this  we  left  our  squaws  alone, 
Pursued  our  course  thro'  ways  unknown, 

O'er  mountains  wild  and  rude." 
"  Then  are  ye  welcome — and  may  eat 
With  us  our  succotash  and  meat, 


24  MAINTONOMAH. 

As  brothers,  and  as  friends  : 
The  good  Manitto  to  us  gave 
Enough,  and  it  is  all  we  crave, 

For  ill  too  much  attends." 

VI. 

The  crowd  dispersed  ;  the  council-fire 
Was  lighted,  and  its  flaming  spire 

Shot  upward  to  the  sky  : 
How  beautiful ! — its  ruddy  glare 
Waved  purple  on  the  midnight  air, 

And  soar'd  triumphantly  ! 
Oh  !  nothing  could  excel  the  sight : — 
I  gazed  upon  it  with  delight, 

It  swell'd  my  bosom  high  : 
My  every  fear  had  vanish'd  then  ; 
I  join'd  a  lounging  group  of  men, 

And  talk'd  exultingly. 

VII. 

My  father  held  much  talk  the  while, 
At  distance  from  the  blazing  pile, 

Beneath  the  forest  shade, 
With  the  strange  chief — who  seem'd  to  be 
Entreating  him  most  earnestly, 

From  gestures  that  he  made. 
At  length  they  ended  their  debate, 
Carrie  forward,  where  the  warriors  sate 


MAINTONOMAH.  25 

Upon  the  green-clad  ground  : 
I  mark'd  their  forms,  their  bearing,  too, 
And  to  a  just,  impartial  view, 
I  thought  that  very,  very  few 

Such  beings  could  be  found  ! 
Magnolias  grow  both  smooth  and  straight, 

And  angry  cougars  have  bright  eyes  ; 
Magnolias  grow  to  a  great  height, 

And  wave  their  branches  in  the  skies. 
But  scarce  less  tall  those  chieftains  seem'd 

Than  those  fair  Sachems*  of  the  wood  ; 
And  not  less  bright  their  dark  eyes  gleam 'd 

Than  cougar's  in  a  wrathful  mood  ! 

VIII. 

My  father  motioned  with  his  hand  : — 
Each  gallant  warrior  of  his  band 
Rose,  at  the  dumb  show  of  command, 

And  folio w'd  to  the  fire. 
A  pile  of  bushes  form'd  his  seat, 
Distilling  odors  mild  and  sweet, 

Which  mingled  with  the  air  : 
The  stranger  chief  sat  by  his  side, 
And  much  of  dignity  and  pride 

Shone  in  his  haughty  stare  ! 

*  The  magnolia  may  well  be  called  the  "  Sachem  "  of  the  wood ; 
its  trunk  is  not  unfrequently  a  hundred  feet  high,  and  perfectly 
straight. 

3* 


26  MAINTONOMAH. 

The  men  were  in  a  circle  drawn, 

And  seated  on  the  open  lawn  ; 

Their  pipes  were  lighted,  and  the  smoke 

Into  fantastic  edies  broke, 

Which  form'd  an  artificial  cloud, 

And  wrapp'd  them  in  a  mazy  shroud. 

IX. 

The  fumes  of  smoke  had  pass'd  away, 

The  moon  moved  down  the  western  sky  ; 
Anon,  her  bright,  unclouded  ray 

Broke  thro'  the  tree-tops  silently. 
Hark  !  did  I  hear  my  father  speak 

In  a  forbidding  tone  ? 
Or  does  it  thro'  the  greenwood  break, 

The  west  wind's  hollow  moan? 
Or,  hark  again  !  ay,  now  I  hear 

Great  Maintonomah's  voice ! 
'Tis  very  loud — it  strikes  mine  ear 

Like  Niagara's  noise ! 
"  Teton  "  it  says,  "  tell  not  a  word 

Of  what  I  spoke  that  fatal  night ; 
The  faithless  Pale-face  will  record 

Each  sentence  uttered,  with  delight. 
Enough  it  is  for  him  to  learn 

"What  mighty  Metamora  said, 
When  bright  our  council-fire  did  burn, 

And  waved  in  air  its  lurid  head." 


MAINTONOMAH.  27 

x. 

Thus  spake  the  voice  ;  didst  thou  not  hear  ? 
Nay,  thou  could'st  not !   'twas  for  my  ear, 

And  for  my  ear  alone  ; 
Though  it  had  made  the  mountains  quake, 
The  earth  unto  its  centre  shake, 

Still  it  were  all  my  own  ; 
Therefore,  be  silent,  question  not 

Whatever  I  may  say  ; 
His  warning  cannot  be  forgot, 

And  him  I  must  obey. 

XI. 

What  Maintonomah  told  his  men 
Will  never-  more  be  heard  again  ! 
And  soon  will  dark  oblivion 
Close  o'er  the  relics  of  his  son  ! 
But  what  the  Wampanoag  said 
Must  be  rehearsed  ere  I  am  dead ; 
But  only  to  elucidate 
The  incidents  I  shall  relate. 

King  Philip  rose,  (the  white  men  gave 
Such  name  to  Metamora  brave,) 
Looked  o'er  the  mute,  attentive  crowd, 
And  spoke  in  accents  deeply  loud — 
"  Brothers,  ye  are  both  brave  and  just ; 
To  some  Manitto  gave  a  trust ; 


28  MAINTONOMAH . 

The  land  between  two  rivers  wide, 

He  gave  the  children  of  his  pride  ; 

Told  them  to  guard,  with  jealous  care, 

From  Hudson  to  the  Delaware. 

Tradition  tells  how  long  they've  held 

The  soil  on  which  their  fathers  dwelled  ; 

They've  kept   their    trust — they've    kept   their 

faith — 

They  hate  their  foes,  and  fear  not  death  ! 
Do  any  know  this  tribe  so  true  ? 
My  brothers — Mohawks  !  it  is  you  ! 
But  the  Great  Spirit's  face  is  hid 
Behind  a  cloud  !  did  he  not  bid 
His  children  guard  their  hunting-grounds  ? ' 
And  have  they  never  heard  strange  sounds  ? 
Have  they  seen  strange  footprints  near  ? 
Have  they  not  missed  the  moose  and  deer  ? 
Have  they  not  seen  the  big-canoe,* 
Fire-water, t  and  Pale-faces  too  ? 
Yes — they  have  seen  all  these,  and  more  ! 
They've  heard  the  white-men's  thunder  roar ! 
They've  seen  their  hunting-grounds  laid  low, 
And  that  by  a  deceitful  foe ! 
And  were  they  made  to  hoe  the  corn  ? 
No  !  their  free  souls  such  labor  scorn  ! 
Listen,  brothers  !  hear  me  through  ; 

*  Ship.  f  Spirituous  liquors. 


MAINTONOMAH.  29 

Ye  are  men  and  warriors  too  ! 

Those  strangers,  white  as  winter's  snow, 

Claim  all  the  land,  where'er  they  go  ! 

They  say  their  Christian  (rod  hath  given 

Unto  them  all  things  under  heaven  ! 

They  call  the  Indians  poor,  and  kill 

Their  game,  to  make  them  poorer  still ! 

And  shall  we  crouch,  like  dogs,  before 

The  Pale-faced  tribe  ?  our  sires  of  yore 

Would  frown  upon  us  evermore  !      • 

They've  slain  my  friends — my  brothers'  friends — 

For  which  they  cannot  make  amends ; 

Their  restless  ghosts  for  vengeance  sigh, 

And  long  to  hear  our  battle-cry  ! 

They  went  alone — with  naked  hands — 

Into  the  happy  Spirit-lands  ; 

And  shall  this  be  ?  no — it  must  not — 

Their  wrongs  must  never  be  forgot ; 

A  curse  would  rest  upon  our  head. 

And  we  should  fear  to  meet  the  dead  ! 

Are'  not  my  brothers  of  my  mind  ? 

Do  they  not,  sometimes,  feel  inclined 

To  strike  the  foe  ?  now  is  the  time  ! 

Exterminate  them  from  our  clime  ! 

Slay  every  Pale-face  on  our  soil, 

And  feast  forever  on  the  spoil ! 

They've  driven  me  from  hill  to  fen, 

From  valley  to  the  mountain  glen  ; 


30  MAINTONOMAH. 

Yet  still  I  have  a  willing  band, 

Who  only  wait  for  my  command 

To  tomahawk  our  common  foe, 

And  wrap  their  wigwams  in  a  glow  ! 

Believe  me,  brothers,  they  will  come, 

Ere  long,  and  claim  your  happy  home  ; 

If  not  arrested  in  their  course, 

Or  banished  from  our  land,  per  force  ! 

Hence,  brothers,  I  believe  it  right 

For  all  in  «common  to  unite, 

And  swear  by  every  restless  ghost 

That  wanders  unavenged  and  lost — 

By  every  hope  and  feeling  high 

Engendered  by  nativity — 

To  free  the  land  our  fathers  gave, 

Or  make  that  land  our  common  grave  !" 

XII. 

When  he  had  ceased,  a  startling  yell 

Re-echo 'd  through  the  wood  and  dell ; 

"  Revenge  and  death  !"  each  warrior  cried, 

And  grasped  the  hatchet  by  his  side  ; 

For  Philip's  speech  had  woke  their  ire, 

As  fuel  added  to  a  fire ; 

They  jump'd,  and  whoop'd,  and  beat  the  air, 

Like  wounded  bisons  in  despair, 

And  shouted  up  and  down  the  plain, 

'Till  Maintonomah  spoke  again. 


MAINTONOMAH.  31 

He  spoke — and  every  man  was  still 
As  morning's  mist  upon  a  hill ; 
He  spoke — but  I  may  not  unfold 
A  single  word  of  what  he  told  ! 
You  know  my  reason — ask  not  why 
The  moon  appears  in  yonder  sky. 

XIII. 

They  held  a  consultation  brief, 

And  seem'd  united  in  belief. 

Then  Maintonomah  step'd  unto 

A  pine,*  that  in  the  clearing  grew, 

And  struck  his  tomahawk  therein  ; 

The  hills  returned  the  sullen  din. 

This  was  a  hostile  signal,  given 

Before  the  face  of  man  and  heaven, 

To  prove  the  truce  no  longer  good, 

Which  had  been  stain'd  with  Indian  blood. 

The  men  now  follow'd  to  the  tree, 

And  wounded  it  successively  ; 

Tore  off  the  bark  with  mimic  rage, 

And  sorely  maim'd  that  tree  of  age  ! 

At  length  they  ceased,  and  then  returned 

Near  where  the  dying  beacon  burn'd, 

*  After  resolving  war,  the  Indians  usually  select  some  convenient 
tree  as  a  symbol  of  their  enemy  ;  against  which  they  direct  their 
mimic  vengeance. 


32  MAINTONOMAH . 

Drew  in  a  line  around  their  chief, 
Who  wish'd  from  further  works  relief, 
Until  the  morning  sun  should  rise 
And  re-illume  the  azure  skies. 


MAINTONOMAH 

PART,    THIRD. 


THE  birds  begin  to  carol  loud, 

And  Night  withdraws  her  sable  shroud ; 

The  golden  sun  appears  in  view, 

Beyond  the  hills  of  sombre  hue  ; 

The  Hudson  glitters  to  the  sheen,. 

The  woods  are  dress'd  in  burnish'd  green, 

The  dew-drops  sparkle  on  the  lawn, 

And  add  their  lustre  to  the  morn — 

All  Nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay, 

Seems  welcoming  the  new-born  day. 

n. 

What  sounds  are  "those,  now  swelling  high, 

Now  low'ring  into  melody? 

Ah,  me ! — they  speak  a  mournful  tone, 

Like  requiem  for  spirits  gone : 

They  bid  the  native  warrior  rise, 

And  seek  a  warrior's  destinies : 

They  are  the  conch-notes,  sounding  far 

The  larum  of  approaching  war ! 


34  MAINTONOMAH. 

III. 

When  the  first  signal-blast  was  heard, 
Each  inmate  at  his  door  appear'd; 
And  when  the  last  sound  died  away, 
Like  some  mysterious  roundelay, 
The  busy  squaws  might  then  be  seen, 
The  sportive  boys  upon  the  green, 
The  warriors  stalking  here  and  there, 
Apparently  devoid  of  care, 
Until,  by  mutual  assent, 
They  circled  Maintonomah's  tent. 

IV. 

With  Metamora  and  his  men, 
My  father  was  conversing  then : — 
"And  has  my  brother  seen,"  asked  he, 
"  The  great  white  chief*  beyond  the  sea?" 
"We  feel  the  wind,  but  cannot  see 
The  cause  of  its  velocity." 
"  'Tis  well;  and  does  my  brother  know 
The  strength  and  number  of  his  foe?" 
"  The  leaves  are  num'rous  on  the  trees, 
But  they  are  scattered  by  the  breeze ; 
The  Yengese  number  like  the  sand, 
Still  we  may  drive  them  from  our  land, 

If  we-  but  work  unitedly, 
From  civil  broils  and  factions  free." 

*  King  of  England 


MAINTONOMAH.  35 

"Enough: — the  beaver  is  full  wise, 
The  wild-cat  utters  treach'rous  cries, 
The  cunning  fox  is  often  ta'en, 
The  bear  and  bison  may  be  slain, 
The  white-men  strike  the  red-men  well, 
Still  they  are  not  invincible  !" 

v. 

He  still  was  speaking,  when  a  shout 
Proclaim'd  some  incident  without : 
Those  who  had  placed  themselves  before 
The  humble  wigwam's  open  door, 
Now  parted,  to  make  way  for  one 
Whose  earthly  race  was  nearly  run. 
All  riveted  an  eager  gaze 
Upon  the  sage  of  many  days ; 
And  each  appear 'd,  at  least  to  me, 
To  watch  his  movements  anxiously ; 
Because  he  was,  till  then,  unknown, 
Of  latter  years  to  walk  alone  ; 
Especially  before  the  sun 
Had  drunk  the  dew  and  dried  the  lawn. 
He  sat  by  Maintonomah's  side, 
And  Metamora  keenly  eyed. 
That  haughty  chieftain  well  could  brook 
Our  aged  prophet's  eagle  look : 
He  did  not  quail  beneath  his  eye, 
Though  keen  and  long  the  scrutiny ; 


36  MAINTONOMAH. 

And  not  a  muscle  could  you  trace 
Distorted  in  his  manly  face ; 
But,  like  a  noble  Sagamore, 
The  close  examination  bore. 

VI. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  hour, 

'Till  to  the  land  of  shadows  borne, 
When  Wessatona's  magic  power 

Foretold  my  father's  doom  that  morn ; 
For  he  was  gifted  to  behold, 

Thro'  thy  dark  shades,  Futurity ! 
Life's  awful  waste ;  and  to  unfold 

The  hidden  things  of  destiny. 
"And  go,"  he  said,  "tho'  1  have  dream'd 

That  thou  shalt  falJ  in  battle  brave ; 
A  Sachem's  word  should  be  redeem'd, 

Tho'  it  were  purchased  by  his  grave ! 
Gfo,  then,  pride  of  thy  people !  where 

The  boon  of  glory  may  be  found ;       . 
Be  honor  still  thy  leading  star, 

And  let  thy  war-whoop  loudest  sound. 
I've  marked  our  brother — fear  him  not — 

No  treason  harbors  in  his  breast : 
First  of  his  nation — he  has  fought 

The  bravest  and  the  best ! 
Farewell,  my  son ! — Manitto  calls : 

Thy  father  beckons  thee  to  come : 


MAINTONOMAH.  37 

Haste  to  the  field  where  manhood  falls, 
And  seek  a  long — a  happy  home." 

•  • 

VII. 

He  ceased ;  an  awful  pause  ensued 

The  dread  disclosure  made ; 
Bach  seem'd  unwilling  to  intrude,    . 

And  solemn  silence  sway'd. 
The  prophet  left  our  wigwam  drear, 

And  sought  his  own  again : 
Methought  I  saw  the  briny  tear 

Bedew  his  visage  then. 
The  men  withdrew  to  eat  their  meat, 

And  bid  their  squaws  adieu : 
My  sire  resum'd  his  lowly  seat, 

And  took  refreshments  too. 
He  bade  the  strangers  share  his  cheer ; 
Consisting  of  a  haunch  of  deer, 
A  gourd  of  water,  and  some  fish 
Placed  in  an  oval  wooden  dish, 
A  bowl  of  succotash  and  bread  ; 
On  such  repast  stern  warriors  fed. 

VIII. 

Behold  a  warlike  band,  array 'd 
In  Indian  pomp — in  Indian  show ! 

See  o'er  their  heads  a  flag  display'd, 
Type  of  defiance  to  the  foe ! 


38  MAINTONOMAH. 

Their  gaudy  plumes  of  feathers  gay 

Wave  in  the  southern,  summer  gale ; 
Their  polished  arms  rejflect  the  day, 

Like  sparkling  diamonds,  bright  and  pale. 
Their  valiant  chief — my  noble  sire — 

By  Areouski*  doomrd  to  die, 
Feels  in  his  breast  the  martial  fire, 

And  glories  in  his  destiny ! 
Now  all  are  ranged  upon  the  plain, 

Between  the  village  -and  the  sun ; 
0,  hearken  to  the  rising  strain ! 

Their  solemn  war-song  is  begun ! 

SONG. 
Manitto  !  lend  thine  ear 

To  thy  children  weak  ; 
Manitto !  deign  to  hear 

What  they  speak. 

Thou  art  strong — thou  art  just — 
Thou  art  swift — we  are  slow ; 

In  thee  we  place  our  trust, 
Help  us  strike  the  foe  ! 

Manitto !  hear  our  cries, 
We  crave  thy  inighty  aid  : 

Manitto  !  thou  art  wise, 
And  knowest  what  is  said. 

*  Indian  God  of  War. 


MAINTONOMAH.  39 

IX. 

Three  several  times  I  plainly  heard 
Each  simple  line,  and  simple  word  ; 
Deep,  slow,  and  soft  their  accents  fell, 
And  died  in  distance  thro'  the  dell. 
However  harsh  to  a  white  ear 
Their  artless  cadence  might  appear  ; 
Howe'er  uncouth  their  attitude, 
Unpolished  verse,  and  gestures  rude  ; 
Yet,  to  an  Indian,  like  me,  / 

'Twas  like  some  passing  melody, 
And  every  action,  word  and  tone 
Blent  in  harmonious  unison  ! 

x. 

Ere  yet  the  destin'd  march  began, 

The  war-pipe  pass'd  from  man  to  man  ; 

Its  stem  was  of  a  crimson  hue, 

Its  bowl  was  of  the  brightest  blue, 

"Wrought  from  stone*  of  hardest  mould, 

By  Christian  hunters  bought  and  sold. 

That  done,  they  pass'd  with. noiseless  tread 

Unto  the  Hudson's  lowly  bed, 

Where  fifty  light  canoes  were  seen, 

All  dancing  on  the  waters  sheen. 

The  southern  breeze  swept  o'er  the  flood, 

*  Flint. 


40  '    MAINTONOMAH. 

And  sigh'd  along  the  leafy  wood  ; 

And  fresher  still  the  breezlet  blew, 

And  higher  still  the  billows  grew, 

Until  they  laved  the  sandy  shore, 

With  dashing  foam  and  hollow  roar. 

Now  o'er  the  troubled  deep  they  glide, 

Like  bounding  bisons,  side  by  side  ; 

See  ! — they  have  gained  the  eastern  strand, 

And  draw  their  canoes  to  the  land  : 

Another  look — and  naught  is  seen, 

Save  barren  rocks  and  cedars  green. 


XI. 

Twelve  suns  had  roll'd  from  east  to  west, 
As  many  moons  had  sunk  to  rest ; 
Twelve  times  the  stars  appeared  in  view, 
Diffusing  feeble  lustre  too, — 
Since  Maintonomah  and  his  band 
Sought  Metamora's  troubled  land. 

There  is  a  feeling  of  the  heart, 

Pure  as  the  balmy  breath  of  morning, 

When  Night's  unfathom'd  shades  depart, 
And  oriental  beams  are  dawning  : 

It  is  that  love  which  parents  bear 

For  the  dear  objects  of  their  care  ; 

It  is  that  love  which  children  learn 


JVIAINTONOMAH.  41 


To  feel  for  parents  in  return. 
And  such  the  passion  that  I  felt, 
When  in  the  lonely  tent  I  knelt, 
And  pray'd  Manitto  to  restore 
My  father  to  his  tribe  once  more. 
But  what  avail  our  earnest  cries, 
When  He,  who  rules  in  yonder  skies, 
Hath  need  of  those  we  would  detain, 
And  calls  them  to  himself  again  ? 


XII. 

The  morning  dawn'd  without  a  cloud  ; 

The  larks  ascended  in  the  air  ; 
The  men  assembled  in  a  crowd, 

But  then,  alas  !  few  men  were  there. 
The  boys  resum'd  their  daily  plays, 

The  mimic  of  the  chase  and  fight, 
And  acted  them  in  many  ways, 

With  Youth  and  Childhood's  gay  delight. 
Oh,  Youth  !  oh,  Childhood  ! — what  are  ye, 

That  smile  so  sweetly  for  a  time  ? 
Blest  beacons  on  Life's  stormy  sea, 

Between  its  dawning  and  its  prime  ! 
Bright  as  the  golderi  sun,  ye  seem  ; 

Fair  as  the  moon,  when  riding  high  ; 
But  transient  as  the  dazzling  gleam 

That  shoots  athwart  a  troubled  sky  ! 


42  MAINTONOMAH. 

XIII. 

E'en  now,  methinks,  I  hear  the  yell, 
Which  thundered  thro'  this  very  dell, 

Full  sixty  years  ago  : — 
Again  it  rose,  in  awful  strain, 
The  notes  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 

And  died  in  echo's  low. 
Lo  !  near  the  river's  eastern  side, 
Afloat  upon  the  limpid  tide, 

Our  absent  friends  appear  ! 
'  How  swiftly  o'er  the  waves  they  come  ! 
Th^ry  seek  a  peaceful,  happy  home, 

Remote  from  war's  career. 
Joy  !  joy  ! — but  transient  joy  is  found 

Within  this  world  of  cares  : 
As  thorns  'mid  fairest  flowers  abound, 

Life  is  beset  with  snares  ! 
We  joy'd  to  see  them  near  the  land, 

But  soon  that  joy  was  turn'd  to  pain 
Where  was  the  leader  of  the  band  ? 

He  ne'er  shall  see  his  tribe  again  ! 
Wrapt  in  the  arms  of  death,  he  lies, 

And  cold  as  Alleghania's  snow  : 
Alas  !  no  more  his  eagle  eyes 

Shall  light  his  warriors  to  the  foe  ! 

xl  v. 
Oh  !  listen  to  those  piercing  tones — 


MAINTONOMAH.  43 

They  fill  my  heart  with  dread  ; 
They  are  the  weeping  widows'  moans, 

Bewailing  husbands  dead  ! 
And,  mingled  with  their  grief,  arise 
The  hapless  orphans'  plaintive  cries  : 
These  grieve  for  those  who  never  more 
Shall  smile  upon  them  as  before  ; 
And  those  for  those  endeared  by  ties 
Of  hymenean  paradise. 

xv. 

Long  ere  the  mourners  ceased  to  weep, 
Four  warriors  climb 'd  the  rocky  steep  ; 
They  bore  a  litter,  form'd  of  wood, 
Of  hasty  workmanship  and  rude  ; 
'Twas  lined  with  barks  and  -blankets  too, 
Thus  rendered  easy  to  the  view. 
They  gain'd  the  plain,  and  pass'd  along, 
With  solemn  tread,  amid  the  throng. 
All  eyes  were  fixed  on  them  alone, 
To  none  their  burden  was  unknown, 
For,  on  the  litter  which  they  bore, 
Lay  Maintonomah — -chief  no  more  ! 

XVI. 

Near  yonder  grove  of  stately  trees, 
Now  waving  in  the  evening  breeze, 
Upon  a  seat  they  placed  my  sire, 


44  MAINTONOMAH. 

And  dress'd  him  in  a  gay  attire  : 
His  tomahawk,  bright  as  the  sun  ! 
His  wampum,  with  its  trinkets  on ; 
His  blanket,  decked  with  beads  and  gold, 
Which  dangled  from  each  graceful  fold ; 
His  knife  was  pendant  from  his  waist, 
With  eagle  plumes  his  head  was  graced, 
His  bow  was  o'er  his  shoulder  slung, 
And  arrows  in  his  quiver  hung. 

XVII. 

The  minor  chieftains  gathered  round, 

The  young  men  and  the  squaws  appeared ; 
All  stood  in  silence  deep,  profound, 

And  gazed  on  him  they  loved,  revered. 
Yes — all  were  there,  save  those  who  fell, 

As  fell  their  leader,  in  the  fight, 
But  they  had  gone  where  warriors  dwell 

With  purer,  unalloy'd  delight. 
Immediately  before  him  stood 
Old  Wessatona,  wise  and  good. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  breast, 
His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  chest, 
His  eyes  were  closed,  and  from  them  stole 
The  tender  anguish  of  his  soul. 
Long  had  the  awful  quiet  reign'd, 
Where  all  was  felt  and  nothing  feigri'd; 
And  long  had  every  one  bestow 'd 


MAINTONOMAH .  45 

The  mournful  tribute,  justly  owed  ; 

Before  the  sage  appeared  to  note 

His  being  on  the  fatal  spot. 

At  first  his  lips  began  to  move 

As  if  imploring  heaven's  love ; 

Fitful  and  indistinct  their  sound, 

Scarce  heard  by  those  who  wept  around. 

A  hundred  summers  he  had  seen, 

Attired  in  robes  of  vernal  green ; 

A  hundred  winters  he  had  known 

Howl  on  the  trail  of  winters  gone ; 

And  many  tokens  had  they  cast 

Upon  him,  as  they  hurried  past ; 

The  flowing  scalp-lock  on  his  head 

Rivall'd  the  snow-wreath  which  they  shed ; 

And  bended  form,  and  furrowed  face, 

And  trembling  limb,  and  tottering  pace, 

Were  of  his  lengthened  years,  the  trace. 

Yet,  not  the  weight  of  a  century 

Could  then  repress  his  energy  ; 

He  oped  his  eyes,  he  raised  his  head, 

And  thus  address 'd  the  silent  dead : 

-  H 

XVIII. 

"  Pride  of  the  Mohawks !  thou  art  gone : 
A  nation  mourns  thee  all  too  soon ! 
Thou  wast  the  foremost  in  the  chase ! 
Thou  wast  the  fleetest  in  the  race ! 


46  MAINTONOMAH. 

None  knew  so  well,  as  thou  did'st  know, 
To  hunt  the  moose  and  strike  the  foe ! 
Few  at  the  council-fire  so  young, 
None  wiser — and  but  few  as  strong ! 
Why  hast  thou  left  us,  noble  chief? 
Why  was  thy  stay  among  us  brief? 
Manitto  call'd — thou  hast  obey'd, 
And  left  us  nothing  but  thy  shade. 
But  thou  didst  not  repair  alone 
To  the  Great  Spirit's  happy  throne ; 
A  hundred  Yengese  clear  thy  way ! 
A  hundred  scalps  beside  thee  lay ! 
What  chief  can  fill  thy  vacant  place 
With  equal  good  and  equal  grace  ? 
None,  eagle  of  thy  tribe !  is  even — 
The  boon  to  thee  alone  was  given ! 
Thou  hast  discharged  thy  duty  here, 
Without  a  rival  or  compeer : 
Thy  sun  is  set — thy  work  is  done — 
Thy  night  is  come,  and  thou  art  gone ! 
Gone,  with  thy  father's  ghost  to  dwell : 
Pride  of  the  Mohawks! — fare  thee  well!" 

XIX. 

Thus  spoke  the  sage ; — the  multitude- 
Drank  deep  each  solemn  word ; 

They  listen'd  in  attentive  mood, 
And  reverenced  what  they  heard. 


MAINTONOMAH.  47 

His  voice  was  hush'd — his  eyes  reclosed, 
And  once  again  his  head  reposed 

Upon  his  bosom  bare : 
Two  of  the  braves,  who  stood  near  by, 
Attended  respectfully 

Unto  his  tent  with  care. 

xx. 

And  now  the  mournful  numbers  rise, 

The  corse  is  placed  upon  a  bier, 
And,  follow'd  by  a  nation's  cries, 

Convey'd,  in  awful  grandeur,  here. 
Yes,  here,  beneath  this  very  clay, 

On  which,  proud  Christian !  thou  didst  tread, 
Doth  mighty  Maintonomah  lay ! 

The  noble  and  forgotten  dead . 

Enough: — as  I  have  said  before, 

My  final  hour  will  shortly  come  ; 
Go — Pale-face !  and  return  no  more — 

I'll  weep  upon  my  father's  tomb  : 
Yes, — I  will  weep  'till  kindly  death 

Shall  dry  my  tears  with  friendly  hand ; 
Then  joyfully  resign 'Yny  breath, 

And  meet  him  in  the  Spirit  Land. 


THE     FORSAKEN. 


Deep  the  woe  that  fast  is  sending 

From  my  cheek  its  healthful  bloom  ; 

Sad  my  thoughts,  as  willows  bending 
O'er  the  borders  of  the  tomb. — G.  P.  MORRIS. 


SLOWLY,  slowly  swept  the  river, 
Gently,  gently  sigh'd  the  breeze, 

Softly,  sweetly  the  deceiver 

"Whispered  Lucy  words  like  these — 

"Come,  oh!  come,  my  dearest,  dearest, 
Leave  thy  home,  and  fly  with  me ; 

By  that  power  which  thou  reverest, 
I  will  be  all  love  to  thee ! 

May  I  never,  never,  never 

Know  one  moment's  peace  of  mind, 
If  I  ever,  ever,  ever 

To  my  Lucy  prove  unkind ! 

Fear  not — tremble  not — my  fairest ! 

Edgar's  life  shall  be  thy  shield : 
All  his  love  alone  thou  sharest, 

By  his  sense  of  honor  sealed. 


THE    FORSAKEN.  49 

Leave  thy  father — leave  thy  mother — 

They  have  never  loved  like  me  ; 
Leave  thy  sister  and  thy  brother, 

They  can  be  no  more  to  thee. 

Do  not  hesitate,  my  Lucy — 

Can'st  thou  doubt ! — oh !  no,  no,  no ! 

Cannot  Edgar's  love  induce  thee 
Love  of  others  to  forego  ? 

See  !  our  gallant  bark  is  lying 

On  the  waves  impatiently — 
Come,  oh  !  come,  let  us  be  flying 

To  the  land  where  love  is  free." 

One  long,  lingering  look  of  sorrow, 

Cast  I  on  my  happy  home  ; 
'Twas  my  last ! — away — the  morrow 

Sealed  forever  Lucy's  doom  ! 

We  were  married — we  were  married  ! 

Oh  !  it  is  a  solemn  thing  ! 
To  the  rector  I  wa£  carried, 

And  received  the  nuptial  ring. 

Hours  of  pleasure — hours  of  pleasure 

Follow'd  fast  the  deed  of  ill : 
I  was  happy  in  my  treasure, 

Edgar  seem'd  more  happy  still. 


50 


THE    FORSAKEN. 

t  i 

Fickle  fortune  —  fickle  fortune 

Smil'd,  but  only  to  beguile  ; 
Mark  this  caution  —  mark  this  caution  — 

Trust  not  fortune  by  her  smile  ! 

Tho'  it  beameth  —  tho'  it  beameth, 

All  serenely,  brightly  fair, 
'Tis  as  gleameth  —  'tis  as  gleameth 

Lightning  thro'  the  evening  air  ! 

Hours  of  pleasure  —  hours  of  pleasure 
Soon  were  changed  to  hours  of  woe  ! 

Edgar  wearied  of  his  treasure  — 
Lucy  felt  the  fatal  blow  ! 

There  were  others  —  there  were  others, 
Fairer  forms  than  Lucy's,  wore  ; 

Edgar's  heart  became  another's  — 
Would  that  Lucy's  beat  no  more  ! 

From  that  moment  I  have  wandered, 

Weary,  wretched  and  forlorn  ; 
Health,  and  peace,  and  honor,  squandered,- 

Oh  that  I  had  ne'er  been  born  ! 

I  had  parents  —  I  bereft  them  — 

Can  I  seek  them  once  again  ? 
No  —  the  home  in  which  I  left  them 

Lies  beyond  the  rolling  main  ! 


TO    .  51 

I  had  sister — I  had  brother — 

Shall  I  mock  them  with  my  woe  ? 

No  !  the  pride  I  cannot  smother 

Spurns  the  thought,  and  answers  "  no  /" 


IN  Love's  delightful  morning, 
Sweet  roses  strew  the  way  ; 

And  rainbow-prospects,  dawning, 
Smile  in  sere  nest  day. 

i 
Those  roses  are  ideal ; 

Those  prospects  fairy,  too  ; 
And  Love  itself  unreal, 

Except  with — me  and  you  I 


SONG  — TO  MARY. 

DEAR  is  my  little  native  grove, 
And  doubly  dear  my  native  hills, 

Where  warblers  chant  their  hymns  of  love, 
And  fountains  gush  in  virgin  rills. 

And  there,  within  our  humble  cot, 
We'll  live,  and  love  the  hours  away  ; 

Nor  envy  the,  exalted  lot 

Of  those  who  flit  in  fortune's  ray. 

Let  fashion's  ever-fitful  crowd 
Flirt  gayly  on,  in  splendid  woe  ; 

And  drunken  Riot  revel  loud, 

Where  bright  the  midnight  tapers  glow. 

Away  with  these  ! — we'll  live  a  life 
Of  calm  retirement — rural  joy — 

Far  from  the  gay  world's  noise  and  strife, 
Where  every  pleasure  has  alloy. 

And  thou  wilt  sing  the  songs  we  love, 
And  I  will  listen  to  the  strain, 

While  all  the  stars  are  bright  above, 
And  Evening  holds  her  silent  reign. 


TO   AN    EARLY  VIOLET. 


LITTLE  flower — modest  flower — 
Brightly  blooming  in  the  bower 

Form'd  by  Nature's  hand  ; 
Nursed  by  April's  sun  and  shower, 
And  by  zephyrs  fann'd  : — 

What  tho'  art  has  never  dress'd  thee, 
Beauty's  eye  or  hand  caress'd  thee, 

Since  thy  natal  hour  ? 
Bounteous  Nature,  she  has  bless 'd  thee, 

Modest  little  flower ! 

Forest  plants  are  round  thee  springing, 
Forest  branches  o'er  thee  swinging, 

In  the  morning  breeze  ; 
And  the  forest  birds  are  singing, 

'Mid  the  budding  trees. 

With  a  breathing  fragrance  laden, 
Thou  dost  bloom,  this  sylvan  shade  in, 

Sweetly  and  alone ; 
Like  a  meek  and  modest  maiden, 

To  the  world  unknown. 


54  A    THOUGHT. 

type  of  unassuming  Merit  ! 
Thou  from  nature  dost  inherit 

All  thy  bloom  and  grace  ; 
Like  a  pure  and  noble  spirit 

Of  the  human  race. 

Little  flower — pretty  flower — 

Thou  wouldst  grace  my  lady's  bower, 

Or  her  bright  boquet ; 
But  can  I,  with  wanton  power, 

Pluck  thee  from  thy  spray  ? 

No— thou  wert  a  pleasing  dower — 
But  while  April's  sun  and  shower 

Keep  thee  from  decay, 
Thou  shalt  live  thy  little  hour 

By  the  woodland  way. 


A    THOUGHT. 

THO'  breathed  in  softest,  sweetest  tone, 
Beneath  the  darkest  shades  of  even, 

Low  as  the  zephyr's  dying  moan — 
A  lover's  vows  are  heard  in  heaven  ! 


RURAL  LIFE.     (NIGKHT.) 

DOMESTIC  quiet  and  domestic  joy 
Are  sweetly  blended  in  a  rural  life  ; 

The  fireside-converse,  never  known  to  cloy, — 
The  cheerful  husband,  and  the  modest  wife. 

Beguiled  by  many  a  legendary  lore, 
Serenely  pass  the  evening  hours  away  ; 

High  on  the  hearth  the  blazing  faggots  soar, 
And  shed  around  an  ever-genial  ray. 

No  sounds  unhallow'd  vibrate  thro'  the  air, 
To  mar  the  scene  of  innocent  repose  ; 

No  boist'rous  sons  of  Bacchus  revel  there, 
In  noisy  riot,  'till  the  morning  glows. 

All,  all  is  calmness — and  the  tranquil  hours 
Of  rural  evening  sweetly  glide  away, 

Till  nature  yields  to  slumbers'  soothing  powers, 
To  be  awakened  by  the  blaze  of  day. 

Oh  !  happy  life  ! — free  from  the  ills  that  cloud 
Our  soul's  pure  sunshine  in  this  world  below ; 

Where,  when  we  follow  Fashion's  fitful  crowd, 
We  dream  of  pleasures  we  can  never  know. 


MAY. 

THE  fairy-footed  hours  of  May 
Are  brightest  of  the  rolling  year  ; 

The  earth  is  newly-green  and  gay, 
The  sky  is  darkly-blue  and  clear. 

The  air  is  mild — and  breathes  afar 
A  fragrance,  all  unknown  to  earth 

When  other  seasons  smiling  are, 

And  other  flowers  and  fruits  have  birth. 

A  melody,  from  every  tree, 

Is  borne  upon  the  breeze's  wing  ; 

And  purling  fountains,  flowing  free, 
Are  softly,  sweetly  murmuring. 

All  vegetation  starts  to  life, 

As  touched  by  fabled  Magi's  wand  ! 
And  every  plant  and  leaf  is  rife 

With  beauty,  fresh  from  nature's  hand. 

Our  spirits  feel  a  joyous  thrill, 

Participating  Nature's  glee  ; 
And  o'er  the  hill,  and  by  the  rill, 

We  love  to  wander,  lingeringly. 


SONG TO    MARY.  57 

Oh,  I  could  bear,  serenely  bear 
Life's  weary  burden  many  a  day, 

If  every  season  were  as  fair 
And  beautiful  as  sunny  May. 


SON  a— T  0    MARY. 

THY  raven  locks  are  fading,  love, 

I  mark  them  day  by  day  ; 
And  from  thy  cheeks  the  roses,  love, 

Of  youth  have  passed  away. 
But  'twas  not  these  that  won  me,  love, 

Tho'  beautiful  were  they, 
A  deeper  spell  was  on  me,  love, 

A  charm  that  lives  for  aye. 

It  was  thy  souVs  expression,  love, 

Revealed  by  acts  of  thine, 
Which  bound  me  to  thee  ever,  love, 

And  made  thee  ever  mine. 
It,  therefore,  does  not  grieve  me,  love, 

To  see  thy  tresses  fade  ; 
Thy  spirit-beauties  won  me,  love, 

And  they  have  not  decayed. 


ON   THE    DEATH 

OP  A.  I.  UNDERBILL,  OF  NEW  YORK.    APRIL,  1836. 


No  marble  marks  thy  conch  of  lowly  sleep, 
Bnt  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep  ; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom  ! — BYRON. 


HE  died — as  all  who  live  must  die 

He  died  in  joyous  youth, 
When  the  soul  is  full  of  poetry, 

And  happiness,  and  truth  ; 
When  fancies  fairies  glide  before 

The  vision  of  our  view, 
And  the  fount  of  life  is  gushing  o'er 

With  feelings,  ever  new. 

I  saw  him  languish  in  decay, 

And  inly  thought,  the  while, 
That  the  rose,  which  dangles  on  its  spray 

In  summer's  genial  smile, 
Were  emblem  meet  of  him — of  all 

Who  tread  this  chequered  stage  ! 
Where  the  brightest  pleasures  soonest  pall- 

A  weary  pilgrimage ! 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A.    I.    UNDERBILL.  59 

And  there  was  thought  upon  his  brow, 

And  genius  in  his  eye, 
Tho'  from  his  cheek  the  hectic  glow 

Was  stealing  silently  ; 
Like  tints  that  leave  the  mountain's  head, 

When  Phoebus  sinks  to  rest, 
And  the  sunny  hours  of  day  have  fled 

Far  in  the  golden  west. 

'Tis  hard — 'tis  passing  hard,  to  see 

Cold  earth  to  earth  return'd, 
Which  so  lately  and  so  joyously, 

With  health  and  vigor  burn'd  ; 
And  yet,  we  know  that  it  must  be, 

'Tis  the  common  lot  of  all !  - 
The  old  must  bow  to  the  stern  decree, 

The  young,  and  the  beautiful. 

He  died — he's  gone — yet  weep  ye  not 

His  spirit,  early  flown ; 
The  past  and  its  trials  are  forgot, 

The  present  all  unknown  ; 
This  world  hath  faded  like  a  dream 

Before  the  sleeper's  eye  ; 
And  his  spirit  lives  in  the  quenchless  beam 

Of  immortality. 


STANZAS. 

'TWERE  sweet,  methinks,  to  trace  yon  river's  tide, 

When  summer's  sun  illumes  the  western  sky, 
With  ever-pleasing  Mary  by  my  side,     < 

Health  in  her  face,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye. 
Our  conversation,  sweeten'd  by  our  love, 

Should  flow  harmonious  to  each  other's  ear  ; 
Our  theme,  the  landscape,  brighten 'd  from  above, 

Some  distant  object,  or  the  waters  near. 

'Twere  sweet,  methinks,  at  evening's  silent  hour, 

When  all  around  is  hushed  in  mimic  death, 
To  hear  my  Mary's  voice  of  music  pour 

Some  dear  memorial  of  our  plighted  faith. 
Oh  !  I  could  listen,  till  my  fancy  heard 

The  song  of  angels,  pealing  from  on  high  ! 
Oh  !  I  could  listen,  'till  the  fabled  bird 

Of  Eden's  bowers  should  seem  to  warble  nigh. 

'Twere  sweet,  methinks,  at  m'orning's  rosy  prime, 

When  vast  creation  wakes  to  life  anew, 
To  muse  with  Mary  on  the  works  sublime 

Of  Nature's  Author  and  Sustainer  too  : 
And,  rapt  in  wonder,  gratitude  and  praise, 

Unenvied,'  and  unenvyihg,  possess 
The  promised  joys  of  courtship's  sunny  days — 

Blest  in  each  other's  love  and  happiness. 


STANZAS. 

THO'  grown  to  manhood's  sober  truth 

And  stern  reality, 
Oh  !  let  the  freshness  of  my  youth 

Forever  live  with  me  ! 

I  would  not  lose  the  mirthful  tone 

Of  youth's  elysian  prime, 
Nor  feel  that,  with  its  hours,  had  flown 

The  sunlight  of  my  time. 

For  all  the  bliss  that  ever  caught 
The  raptured  prophet's  view  ! 

Or  all  the  treasures  ever  brought 
From  India,  or  Peru  ! 

For,  as  that  lone,  effulgent  star 

ForeveT  lights  the  pole, 
Those  old  associations  are 

A  light  around  my  soul. 

Then  blest  forever  be  the  power 

Of  magic  memory ! 
It  renovates  life's  morning  hour, 

Its  gladness,  and  its  glee. 

6* 


SONG. 

A  BOUQUET  of  flowers 
I've  gathered  for  thee, 

From  Flora's  best  bowers, 
Uncultured  and  free. 

I  sought  in  the  wild-wood, 
And  found  the  bluebell, 

Where  we,  in  our  childhood, 
Have  sported  so  well. 

These  lilies  were  blowing 

Beside  a  pure. rill ; 
These  violets,  growing  : 

On  yonder  green  hill. 

Where  waters  were  rushing 
O'er  pebble  and  stone, 

These  roses  were  blushing 
In  beauty  alone. 

Each  flower  in  this  cluster, 
Tho'  wilding  it  grew, 

Might  challenge  the  garden 
For  fragrance  and  hue. 


TO    MARY.  63 


Tho'  Art  never  drest  them, 
With  labor  and  care, 

Boon  Nature  has  blest  them, 
And  made  them  most  fair. 

Accept  them,  and  keep  them, 
For  friendship  and  me  ; — 

This  bouquet  of  flowers 
I  gathered  for  thee. 


TO    MARY. 

ON   PRESENTING   HER   MY    MINIATURE. 

THIS  little  miniature  of  me, 

Of  form  and  face  the  counterpart, 

Is  type  of  the  fidelity 

With  which  thou'rt  mirrored  in  my  heart. 

When  I  am  absent — thou  art  lone — 
Then  will  this  faithful  semblance  be 

The  mute  remembrancer  of  one, 
Whose  spirit  ever  turns  to  thee. 


THE    MAID    OF    MARLBORO 


'  Perfection  whispered,  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  of  Ballochmyle." — BURNS. 


I  SAW,  thee  once — and  never 

Can  I  forget  thy  form  ; 
'Twas  lovely  as  the  sunbeam 

That  flashes  thro'  a  storm  ! 

And,  thro'  their  silken  lashes, 
.Those  soul-lit  eyes  of  thine, 

Shone  brighter  than  twin-diamonds 
From  India's  famous  mine. 

Thy  hair,  in  raven  streamers, 
Flow'd  o'er  a  neck  of  snow, 

As  conscious  of  its  beauty — 
Fair  Maid  of  Marlboro'. 

I  saw  thee  when  the  sunlight 

Was  fading  in  the  sky, 
And  thou  wert  standing  lonely, 

The  lovely  Hudson  by. 

'Twas  beautiful  around  thee, 

Above  thee  and  below  ; 
But  thou  hadst  more  of  beauty, 

Fair  Maid  of  Marlboro'. 


THE    MAID    OF    MARLBORO'. 

And  in  that  mighty  mirror, 
Which  lay  like  molten  gold, 

Thou  couldst  have  seen  reflected 
Thy  form  of  matchless  mould. 

The  birds  anear  thee  singing, 
The  waters,  murm'ring  low, 

Seem'd  making  music  for  thee, 
Fair  Maid  of  Marlboro'. 

And  thou,  in  silence  standing 
Upon  that  lonely  strand, 

Hadst  seem'd  to  poet's  vision, 
The  Q,ueen  of  Fairy  Land — 

Save  that,  in  beauteous  blushes, 
The  rose  of  earth  was  seen  ; 

And  thy  voluptuous  bosom 
Beat,  'neath  its  silken  screen. 

Oft  when  at  evening  straying 
Along  that  lovely  shore, 

I  gaze  where  once  I  saw  thee, 
But  see  thee  there  no  more. 

Lost  Pleiad  of  my  fancy  ! 

None  e'er  can  fill  thy  place : 
Earth  holds  no  being  like  thee, 

In  soul,  and  form,  and  face. 


65 


66  THE    MAID    OF    MARLBORO5. 

And  yet,  thy  peerless  beauty 
May  prove  a  ban  to  thee  ! 

Beware  man's  siren  speeches, 
And  Man's  inconstancy ! 

And  may  the  years,  revolving, 
Bring  naught  to  thee  of  woe  : 

Earth's  blessings  all  be  with  thee, 
Fair  Maid  of  Marlboro' ! 


GAILY  O'ER  THE  WATERS. 

A    SUMMER    EVENING    SCENE    ON   THE    HUDSON. 

G-ALIY  o'er  the  waters,  ho  ! 

Graily  o'er  the  waters, 
In  their  swan-like  shallop  go 

Pleasure's  sons  and  daughters  ! 

On  the  silvery,  moon-lit  air, 
Float  their  mingled  voices  ; 

Oh  !  there  must  be  rapture  where 
Every  one  rejoices  ! 

List  the  burden  of  their  song — 

'Tis  a  song  of  pleasure  ; 
Sweetly  wind  and  wave  prolong 

Its  enchanting  measure. 

What  can  more  delight  the  ear 
Of  earth's  sons  and  daughters, 

Than  a  choir  of  voices  clear, 
Borne  o'er  moon-lit  waters  ? 

Seem  they  not  of  fairy  land  ? 

Seem  their  tones  not  fairy, 
As  they  mellow  and  expand 

Thro'  the  welkin  airy  ? 


68  GAILY  O'ER  'THE  WATERS. 

And  this  soft  and  lovely  sight, 

Is  it  not  entrancing  ? 
On  the  river's  bosom  bright, 

See  the  moonbeams  dancing  ! 

Either  shore  is  fair  to  see  ; 

Hill,  and  plain,  and  bower 
Clothed  in  summer  drapery— 

Leaf,  and  plant,  and  flower. 

On  a  lovely  night  like  this, 
"With  such  scenes  before  them, 

Who  but  feels  a  thrill  of  bliss 
Stealing  sweetly  o'er  them  ? 

Graily  glides  the  boat  along, 
Graily,  o'er  the  waters  : — 

Thank  you  for  that  pleasing  song, 
Youthful  sons  and  daughters  ! 

Blessings  be  upon  you  shed, 

Happiness,  forever : 
Who  would  wish  you  worse  instead, 

Should  be  the  receiver  ! 


STANZAS.* 


TO    MISS    M.    C      OF   NEW    YORK 


THY  VOICE — thy  voice  ! — I  knew  it  well ! 

It  has  the  same  enchanting  power, 
As  when  it  threw  its  magic  spell 

Around  me,  in  life's  morning  hour  : 
There's  music  in  its  every  tone,- 
Harmonious  music,  all  its  own  ! 

When  but  a  playful  child,  I  heard 
Its  tuneful  cadence,  soft  and  clear  ; 

And  every  accent,  every  word, 
Fell  sweetly  on  my  raptur'd  ear  : 

And  "  Blue-eyed  Mary  "  breathed  in  thee, 

When  thou  didst  sing  that  melody  ! 

*  'Twas  a  summer  sunset.  I  was  just  concluding  my  work  in  a 
field  by  the  roadside,  when  hearing  the  approach  of  horses,  I  looked 
up  and  beheld  a  company  of  young  ladies  on  horseback.  At  the 
instant,  and  before  I  had  fully  recognized  her  person,  one  of  them, 
bowing  to  me,  pronounced  my  name.  Her  voice  was  inspiration! 
one  of  the  cherished  associations  of  my  childhood  !  It  carried  my 
thoughts  amid  the  sunny  scenes  of  olden  memories,  when  that  voice, 
rising  in  its  own  native  richness  and  sweetness,  breathed  the  very 


70  STANZAS. 

Oh  !  when  I  heard  thy  voice  to-day, 
What  memories  came  thronging  back  ! 

A  rainbow  train — a  bright  array — 

Seen  thro'  life's  dim  and  devious  track  ; 

And  brothers,  sisters,  playmates — all, 

Were  round  me,  at  thy  spirit's  call. 

All, — all ! — yes,  even  those  who  now 
Are  sleeping  'neath  the  valley's  clod  ; 

Who,  ere  a  furrow  marked  their  brow, 
Obey'd  the  call  of  Nature's  Grod  : 

They  seemed  anear  me,  as  of  yore. 

And  the  same  joyous  faces  wore. 

And  this  the  power  of  music — this 
The  magic  of  thy  voice  to  me  ! 

It  calls  up  childhood's  hours  of  bliss — 
It  opes  the  flowers  of  memory  : 

And  for  the  present  golden  hour, 

I  thank  thee,  Lady  ! — thine  the  dower. 


soul  of  melody  into  the  plaintive  song  of  "  Blue-eyed  Mary."  Long 
years  had  passed  since  I  had  heard  that  voice,  and  yet  it  seemed 
familiar  to  me !  Such  the  associations  of  childhood — such  the 
power  of  melody  !  and  it  brought  with  it  a  vivid  remembrance  of 
"  the  old  sad  song."  I  know  not,  if  these  lines  should  meet  her 
eye,  whether  she  would  recollect  the  circumstance,  or  understand 
the  allusion :  if  she  should,  I  beg  her  not  to  accept  them  as  the 
inimitable  lines  of  Burns  were  accepted  by  the  "bonnie  lass  of 
Ballochmyle." 


LINES.  71 

Oh,  Lady  !  I  have  known  thee  long, 
Yet  never  knew  thee  as  I  ought ; 

And,  but  for  that  remembered  song, 
Thy  voice's  tone  I  had  not  caught ; 

And  thou  hadst  seemed  to  me  like  one 

Whom  I  had  seen,  yet  never  known. 


LINES. 

THERE'S  beauty  in  a  woman's  tears, 
Adown  her  soft  cheek  slowly  stealing, 

A  pensive  beauty — which  endears, 
And  wakens  every  tender  feeling. 

There's  beauty  in  a  woman's  eye, 

With  Love's  pure  passion  brightly  glowing ; 
There's  magic  in  a  woman's  sigh, 

From  her  voluptuous  bosom  flowing. 

There's  music  in  a  woman's  tone, 

Soul-thrilling  music,  breathing  gladness ; 

Imparting  raptures  all  its  own — 

Oh!  that  it  e'er  should  murmur  sadness ! 


HOW   IS   THE    GOSPEL   PREACHED? 

NOT  by  loud  declamation, 

Is  Gospel  preached  on  earth; 
Not  by  the  deep  damnation, 

From  pulpits  thundered  forth; 
Not  by  those  fear-fraught  speeches, 

Made  to  bewilder  man, 
Whose  labor'd  language  reaches 

The  spirit,  but  to  ban! 

Oh!  those  are  they  who  preach  it, 

And  those  alone  are  they, 
Who  by  their  practice  teach  it, 

In  each  succeeding  day ; 
By  acts  of  goodness  only, 

By  deeds  of  charity, 
By  visiting  the  lonely, 

And  soothing  misery. 

Around  the  couch  of  sorrow 

The  Gospel  should  be  heard, 
And,  for  the  coming  morrow, 

Breathe  hope  in  every  word : 
Some  Angel-voice  should  preach  it, 

In  Love's  or  Friendship's  guise; 
Some  act  of  kindness  teach  it, 

By  drying  sorrow's  eyes. 


BEAUTY.  73 

Wherever  Love  confideth, 

Wherever  Fear  is  not, 
Wherever  Truth  abideth, 

The  Grospel  hath  been  taught. 
By  acts  of  moral  duty, 

Which  foster  moral  worth, 
Are  Grospel  love  and  beauty 

Proclaim'd  throughout  the  earth. 


BEAUTY. 

As  moonbeams  that  quiver, 

On  ocean  or  river, 
Are  mellow'd  by  distance,  and  brightest  afar ; 

So  Beauty  is  fairest, 

And  richest,  and  rarest, 
When  seen  in  the  distance  by  Love's  beaming  star ! 

As  Spring's  merry  hours, 

And  Summer's  fair  flowers, 
Bloom  brightly  and  briefly,  then  vanish  away ; 

So  Beauty,  forever, 

Despite  our  endeavor, 
But  blooms  for  a  season,  then  fadeth  for  aye ! 


FRAGMENT, 


AT  summer  eve,  when  all  is  still, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  whip-poor-will 
Pour  its  loud  note,  so  wildly  shrill, 
From  wood  or  valley,  dell  or  hill. 
Oh!  then  a  pensive,  musing  mood 

Comes  o'er  our  senses,  softly  stealing; 
And  every  thought  and  passion  rude 

Yields  to  a  gentler,  milder  feeling. 

There's  music  in  the  zephyr's  sigh, 

There's,  music  in  the  water's  flowing, 
There's  beauty  in  the  evening  sky, 

And  beauty  in  the  landscape  glowing. 
There's  pleasure  in  a  maiden's  eye, 

When  roses  on  her  cheeks  are  blooming, 
When  every  word  breathes  melody, 

And  youth  and  health  her  brow  illuming. 

'Tis  sweet  to  muse  upon  the  days 
Of  careless  childhood, — gone  forever  \ 

'Tis  sweet  to  ponder  o'er  the  lays 

Of  poets,  and  award  the  praise 

Which  mental  worth  and  beauty  raise, 
To  be  forgotten  never. 


FRAGMENT. 


75 


'Tis  sweet  to  rise  at  early  dawn, 

When  bees  their  matin  hymns  are  humming, 
When  dew-drops  sparkle  on  the  lawn, 

And  the  great  king  of  day  is  coming. 
'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  mountains  glow, 

Tinged  by  the  sun's  last  rays  declining ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  see,  far,  far  below, 

The  lake  like  molten  silver  shining. 
'Tis  sweet,  in  some  sequestered  grove, 

Where  purling  streamlets  murmur  sadness, 
To  wander  with  the  maid  we  love, 

And  listen  to  her  voice  of  gladness. 
'Tis  sweet  to  close  our  eyes  in  sleep, 

When  tapers  wane  and  senses  vary, 
And  stars  their  midnight  vigils  keep — 

So,  for  the  present,  farewell,  Mary ! 


FIRST    LOVE. 

OSCAR  was  sweet  seventeen, 
Lucy- something  less,  I  ween; — 
Mutual  love  between  them  grew, 
Such  as  we,  dear  Anna !  knew. 
By  the  stars,  and  all  above, 
Did  they  pledge  their  ardent  love ; 
And  by  all  things  here  below, 

Did  they  vow  to  keep  it  true. 

****** 

Oscar  saw  another  belle, 

Lucy  saw  another  beau  ; 
Oscar  rued  his  promise  well, 

Lucy  rued  her  promise,  too. 
Soon  those  eyes  that  lately  shone 
With  the  light  of  love  alone, 
Sent  the  cold,  averted  glance — 
Something  tinged  with  hate,  perchance. 

Soon  those  voices  lost  their  sweetness, 
Each  word  seem'd  imbued  with  gall ! 

Time  forgot  its  wonted  fleetness, 
Evening  hours,  their  beauty  all; — 

And,  whene'er  the  lovers  met, 

With  reluctance  and  regret, 

Not  a  solitary  smile 

Lighted  up,  their  looks,  the  while ; 


A    THOUGHT.  77 

All  was  cold  formality, 

Nothing  sociable  and  free. 
To  conclude  my  artless  story, 

As  abruptly  as  uncivil, 
Their  first  love  had  lost  its  glory, 

And  they  wished— each  other  at  the  Devil ! 


A    THOUGHT. 

YON  river,  gliding  silently 

Along  its  never- varied  course, 
Has  been — is  now — and  e'er  will  be 

The  same; — sprung  from  a  living  source. 

Unlike  the  tide  of  human  life^ 

It  floweth  in  eternal  youth : 
Yet,  like  the  tide  of  human  life, 

It  teaches  one  eternal  truth. 

It  teaches,  that,  howe'er  we  spend 
Our  time, — in  sadness  or  in  glee, 

Life  still  is  gliding  on — its  end 
The  ocean  of  Eternity. 


SERENADE. 

THE  moon  is  shining  brightly, 

The  stars  are  blinking  too, 
The  breezes  sighing  lightly 

The  blooming  tree-tops  through— 
The  whip-poor-will  is  singing 

On  yon  leaf-shaded  hill, 
The  welkin  wide  is  ringing 

With  her  wild  note,  and  shrill — 

The  river  glideth  lonely 

And  quietly  along ; 
While  I  salute  thee  only, — 

Awake !  and  hear  my  song. 
0 !  sweet,  on  mead  and  mountain 

The  wild-rose  scents  the  gale : 
And  sweet  the  purling  fountain, 

That  murmurs  thro'  the  vale. 

'Tis  passing  sweet,  at  even, 

To  see  the  sun  decline, 
And  view  the  western  heaven 

With  his  last  glories  shine! 
Sweet  is  the  wild  bird's  carol, 

From  dingle,  brake  and  thorn ; 
And  sweet  a  lover's  farewell, 

In  Love's  delightful  morn; 


FRAGMENT.  79 


But  sweeter  far  to  hear  thee, 

At  twilight's  rosy  hour, 
When  I'm  reclining  near  thee, 

Beneath  thy  fav'rite  bower, 
Sing  to  my  lute  so  sweetly, 

So  blithely,  softly,  too  : 
Oh !  then,  as  now,  too  fleetly 

Time  flies — my  love  ! — adieu. 


FRAGMENT. 

I  GLIDE  along,  and  little  do  I  care 

For  Friendship's  smile,  or  Hatred's  withering 

glance ; 
I  am  not  what  I  was — things,  light  as  air, 

Once  could  affect  me ;  but  with  Time's  advance, 
I  have  advanced : — and  now  I  freely  throw 
Peace  to  my  friend — defiance  to  my  foe ! 
I  have  discovered,  what  most  others  can, 

If  they  but  see  half  what  is  to  be  seen, 
That  Friendship's  tie  uniteth  man  and  man, 

As  long  as  mutual  interest  lies  between ; 
Take  that  away, — the  brittle  bond  is  rent — 
And  fawning  Friendship  to  the  Devil  sent ! 


CHILDHOOD. 


OH  careless  childhood  !  sunshine  of  our  days — 
Season  of  bliss — prelude  of  after  woe  ! 

All  bards  have  sung  thee,  with  unbounded  praise, 
All  have  possess 'd  thee  and  have  lost  thee  too  : 

Thou  art  the  morning  of  a  fitful  day, 

Bright  as  a  meteor — transient  as  its  ray ! 

In  thee,  the  heart  is  full  of  melody, 

And  winged  pleasures  fan  the  rosy  hours  ; 

All  nature  smiles  around  us  joyfully, 

And  woos  us  onward  thro'  elysian  bowers  : 

Time  glides,  unnoted,  pleasantly  away, 

And  life  seems  one  long,  sunny  summer  day. 

And  who  but  loves  thee  ? — who,  but  would  recall 
Thy  sports,  thy  pleasures,  and  thyself  again  ? 

Oh  !  vain  desire  ! — yet  not  unnatural, 

Thy  scenes,  sweet  Childhood !    ever  haunt  the 
brain, 

As  lives  in  shells  the  music  of  the  sea, 

So  lives  thy  bliss  within  our  memory.' 


THE     POET. 


"  The  God-tanght  minstrel, 
Above  a  world  untaught, 
Smiles,  lonely,  in  the  smiles  of  heaven, 
From  his  hill-tope  of  thought." 

HALLECK,  FROM  GOETHE. 


THEY  err,  who  deem  the  Poet  made, 
Made  only,  for  the  rhyming  trade  ; 
That  all  his  thoughts  are  lent  to  song, 

And  all  his  soul  is  pour'd  in  verse  : 
Oh !  there  are  passions,  deep  and  strong, 

Of  which  his  bosom  is  the  nurse  ! 
Ambition,  honor,  love  and  pride, 
In  all  their  strength,  with  him  abide. 

Form'd  for  each  varied  scene  of  life, 
Its  joy  and  sorrow,  toil  and  strife, 

Its  sunshine  and  its  shade  ; 
For  every  stage  of  action  here — 
The  hero,  statesman,  financier, 
The  patriot,  peasant,  or  the  peer — 

The  Poet,  too,  was  made. 

Above  the  herd  of  common  men, 

As  mountains  stand  above  the  plain, 

He  looks  abroad  with  eagle  ken, 
Surveying  nature's  wide  domain. 


82 


THE    POET. 


In  all  of  beautiful  and  bright, 

Above,  below — in  earth  or  heaven, 
His  spirit  revels  with  delight ; 
And  pleasures  to  his  soul  are  given, 
Such  as  the  bard,  and  bard  alone, 
Can  understand,  or  call  his  own. 

And  yet — as  on  some  mountain's  head 

The  storms  in  wrath  descend, 
While,  o'er  the  lowly  valley  spread, 

Sunshine  and  beauty  blend — 
The  Poet  feels  the  storms  of  life, 

Than  other  men,  severer  ; 
Still,  when  have  pass'd  their  clouds  and  strife, 

His  heaven,  too,  is  clearer. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BROTHER. 

JULY  HTH,  1841. 


"  When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth." 

HALLKCK. 


MY  Brother,  thou  art  sleeping 
Beneath  the  locust  tree, 

And  many  an  eye  is  weeping, 
And  long  will  weep,  for  thee. 

The  grave  doth  now  enfold  thee 
Within  its  narrow  cellN^ 

No  more  can  we  behold  thee — 
Loved  Brother,  fare  thee  well ! 

Oh  !  is  this  not  ideal  ? 

Art  thou,  indeed,  gone  home  ? 
And  do  we,  sad  and  real, 

Bewail  thy  early  doom  ? 


84  ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    BROTHER. 

Who  that  beheld  and  knew  thee, 
In  manhood's  morning  glow, 

Had  thought  so  soon  to  view  thee 
Within  the  grave  laid  low  ? 

Thine  were  health's  fairest  roses, 
And  earth's  bright  prospects  thine  ; 

Naught,  then,  that  time  discloses, 
Betokened  thy  decline. 

But  thou  art  gone  forever  ! 

High  hopes  have  with  thee  flown  : 
Like  bubbles  from  a  river, 

Thou  and  those  hopes  are  gone ! 

Thy  transient  day  is  over, 

Thy  sun  of  life  is  set, 
But  round  its  pathway  hover 

Thy  living  virtues  yet. 

Kind,  gen'rous,  honest,  fearless — 
Pursuing  life's  best  plan  : 

I  scarce  may  name  thee  tearless, 
Thou  noble-minded  man  ! 

'Twas  hard  to  see  thee  dying, 
'Twas  hard  to  see  thee  dead, 

And  hard  to  see  thee  lying 
Lone  in  thy  last,  cold  bed. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    BROTHER.  85 

Yet  something  'tis  consoling, 

To  think  that  thou  art  blest, 
And  in  the  earth's  green  bosom 

Forever  laid  at  rest. 

And  we,  who  weep  thy  spirit 

So  early  summon'd  home, 
The  same  death-doom  inherit — 

We  follow  to  the  tomb  ! 

Yet  many  an  eye  is  weeping, 

And  long  will  weep,  for  thee  ; 
While  thou  art  calmly  sleeping 

Beneath  the  Locust  tree. 


8* 


FRIENDSHIP. 

PART     FIRST 

•  Ah  I  wliat  is  friendship  but  a  aame  ?" — GOLDSMITH. 


SEATED  at  his  lattice  gay, 
Watching  the  decline  of  day, 
Musing  on  events  long  gone, 
Was  the  College  student  lone. 
He  was  one  of  gentle  mind, 
Meditative,  mild  and  kind. 
Oft,  in  secret,  would  he  pore 
O'er  the  minstrel's  magic  lore  ; 
Oft  he  fancied  he  could  see, 
Thro'  the  veil  of  Poesy, 
Beauties  of  a  purer  birth 
Than  have  origin  in  earth  ! 
And,  anon,  he  would  rehearse, 
In  some  briefly- written  verse, 
Thoughts  that  rush'd  upon  his  soul, 
When  thro'  noonday  walks  he  stole, 
By  the  brooklet's  grassy  side, 
Rippling  thro'  meadows  wide, 


FRIENDSHIP.        .  87 

Or  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
Vocal,  oft,,  with  melodies, 
When  the  sun,  his  central  ray, 
Shot  from  realms  of  living  day. 

ii. 

Hark  ! — a  step  upon  the  floor  ! 
Then  a  tap  upon  the  door ; 
And  it  opens — who  is  there  ? 
'Tis  his  school-mate,  Henry  Clare. 
He  was  one  of  noble  mien, 
Youth  so  fair  is  seldom  seen ; 
He  was  one  of  lofty  soul, 
All  impatient  of  control ; 
Still  he  was  exempt  from  scorn, 
And  for  others'  woe  could  mourn. 
Heart  more  kind  is  seldom  known  ; 
Heart  more  vengeful  none  will  own, 
Than  he  carried  in  his  breast — 
Home  of  many  a  fitful  guest. 

in, 

Characters  so  opposite 

Oft  partake  of  more  delight 

In  each  other's  company, 

Than  those  of  kindred  sympathy  : 

Strange  it  is — and  yet  'tis  true — 

L  have  marked  it — so  have  you. 


88  FRIENDSHIP. 

They  were  young — had  scarcely  seen 
Smiling  summers  seventeen. 
They  were  young — and  youth  is  rife 
"With  the  pleasures  of  this  life, 
Full  of  hope  and  full  of  glee  : — 
Visions  of  futurity 
Opened  to  their  raptured  sight 
Rainbow-prospects  of  delight. 

IV. 

'T would  avail  me  naught  to  sing 
All  that  gave  their  fancy  wing  ; 
Whether  they  remarked  the  skies, 
With  their  gorgeous,  sunset  dies  ; 
Whether  they  debated  free, 
Classics  or  philosophy, 
Heroes,  statesmen,  conquerors, 
Poets,  patriots,  or  wars, 
The  world  below,  the  worlds  above, 
Or  the  milder  theme  of  love. 
Nor  would  it  vantage  you  to  see 
All  their  private  history  ; 
They  were  friends,  and  friends  oft  do 
What  they  would  not  all  should  view  ; 
They  were  friends,  in  deed  as  word, 
What  one  knew,  the  other  heard; 
They  were  friends,  confiding,  free, 
Nothing  dream'd  of  jealousy  ; 


FRIENDSHIP.  89 

Open,  gen'rous,  kind  and  true  ; — 
Such,  alas  !  are  very  few. 
***** 

v. 

One  bright,  summer  afternoon, 
In  the  rosy  month  of  June, 
By  a  pure  and  purling  rill, 
'Neath  a  gently-sloping  hill, 
Where  the  cedars  overhung, 
And  the  soft-toned  cushat  sung, 
Slowly  wandered  thro'  the  shade 
Merton  Howard  and  a  maid. 
She  was  fair — oh  !  very  fair  ! 
Soul-lit  eyes  and  raven  hair, 
Which,  all  free  and  unconfin'd, 
Streamed  loosely  in  the  wind. 

VI. 

Tell  me  not  of  Hour  is  fair, 
Dwelling — no  one  knoweth  where  ! 
Tell  me  not  of  fairy  maids, 
Roving  thro'  celestial  shades, 
In  the  groves  of  Paradise, 
Lighting  Heaven  with  their  eyes  ! 
Fancy  gave  them  birth,  I  ween, 
'By  her  only  are  they  seen. 
Grive  me  those  that  I  can  see, 
Flesh  and  blood — reality. 


90  FRIENDSHIP. 

Take  your  Houris,  light  and  vain, 
Offspring  of  Mahomet's  brain  ! 
Grive  me  those  that  glide  before 
Eyes  that  view  them  and  adore  ; 
Forms  as  sylph-like  as  may  be, 
Breathing,  moving,  gracefully ; 
Cheeks  that  shame  the  opening  rose, 
When  Aurora  brightly  glows  ; 
Voices  that  our  souls  entrance, 
Eyes  that  can  return  a  glance  ; 
Such  the  Houri  of  my  song, 
Such,  we  know,  to  earth  belong. 

VII. 

Long,  in  secret,  had  they  loved  ; 
Oft,  in  secret,  there  they  roved, 
When  the  sun's  declining  rays 
Made  the  neighb'ring  mountains  blaze  ; 
When  the  village  spire  was  bright 
With  reflected,  living  light. 
Sometimes  whisp'ring  words  of  love, 
Sometimes  list'ning  to  the  dove, 
Perched  upon  the  bending  spray, 
Pouring  forth  her  plaintive  lay. 

VIII. 

Now  they  came  to  where  the  rill 
Left  the  windings  of  the  hill, 


FRIENDSHIP.  91 

Flowing  onward,  fair  and  free, 
Thro'  a  wide  and  grassy  lea  ; 
Where  the  trees  more  scattered  grew, 
Scarce  obstructive  to  the  view. 
There,  beneath  a  hoary  oak, 
Pendent  o'er  the  bubbling  brook, 
Did  the  lovers  pause  to  view 
Nature's  beauties — ever  new  ! 


IX. 

Sooth,  it  was  a  lovely  scene  ! 
All  around  was  burnished  green ; 
All  above  was  bright  and  fair, 
Boundless,  cloudless  azure  there  ! 
Grentle  zephyrs  whispered  by, 
Sweetly  as  a  maiden's  sigh, 
Soft  as  guardian  angel's  breath, 
Breathed  around  the  bed  of  death. 


x. 

' '  Mary,  I  have  often  thought 
This  the  sweetest,  loveliest  spot 
Bard  could  wish,  to  wake  his  lay, 
Or  Love,  to  sigh  his  heart  away. 
Yonder  mountains,  high  and  hoar, 


92  FRIENDSHIP. 

Furnish.  Fancy  many  a  lore. 
Oh !  that  I  had  power  to  wield, 
In  the  fair,  poetic  field, 
(Where  so  many  strive  in  vain 
For  the  prize  that  few  can  gain,) 
Such  a  pen  as  Caledon 
Yielded  to  her  fav'rite  son  ; 
Then  would  I,  beneath  this  tree, 
Wake  my  harp  to  minstrelsy, 
And  sing  in  numbers,  bold  and  high, 
Things  only  seen  by  Poet's  eye  ! 
Vain  the  wish,  and  vain  the  thought ; 
Minstrel  skill  cannot  be  bought, 
'Tis  '  unteachable,  untaught.' ' 


XI. 

"  Merton,  nay"-r-the  maid  replied, 

As  a  blush  her  features  dyed, 

And  a  rosy,  roguish  smile 

Wreathed  her  ruby  lips  the  while — 

"  Seek  not  thus  a  compliment 

For  the  lines  you  lately  sent ; 

They  were  good — considering 

Who  touch'd  Apollo's  hallow'd  string!" 

"  I  am  sad,  and  thou  art  gay — 

Sere  November — smiling  May — 

Thus  it  is  the  wide  world  over ; 


FRIENDSHIP.  93 

Shade  and  sunshine,  light  and  gloom, 
Lie  between  us  and  the  tomb  ! 

Thus  it  is  with  maid  and  lover  ; 
He  is  gay  in  courtship's  hour, 

Ere  the  trembling  words  are  breathed  ; 
She  is  languid  as  the  flower 
In  fantastic  garland  wreathed  ! 
But  when  once  the  words  are  spoken, 

When  his  plighted  troth  is  given, 
Then  the  mystic  tie  is  broken  ! 

Then  the  magic  spell  is  riven  ! 
Casting  off  her  pensive  air, 

She  is  gay  as  morning  roses  ; 
All  exempt  from  further  care, 

In  his  love  her  faith  reposes. 
And  cursed  be  the  wretch  that  e'er 

Betrays  the  unsuspecting  maiden  ! 
May  he  the  cup  of  anguish  share , 

And  his  last  hours  be  sorrow-laden  ! 
Smile  not  at  my  warmth,  dear  maid, 
I  have  felt  what  I  have  said  ; 
Though  it  smack  of  bitterness, 

Though  it  shock  thy  moral  feeling, 
Still  I  cannot  wish  it  less — 

'Tis  my  inmost  soul's  revealing  ; 
Tho'  it — ha  ! — who  goeth  there  ? 
'Tis  my  school-mate,  Henry  Clare  ! 
Shall  I  call  him  hither,  fair  ?" 


94  FRIENDSHIP. 

XII. 

"  No,  Merton,  no— let  him  pass  by  ; 

I  almost  dread  his  looks  of  late  ! 
When  last  ye  met,  methought  his  eye 

Shot  glances  stern  of  settled  hate  ! 
Perchance  in  that  my  fancy  err'd, 
But  oh  !  I  have  strange  rumors  heard  ; 
Hast  thou  not  marked  the  altered  tone, 
The  scornful  smile  his  lips  put  on 
When  you  converse  ?    If  thou  hast  not, 
Then  be  what  I  have  said  forgot. 
Let  it  fade  as  airy  dreams 

From  the  souls  of  sleepers  vanish, 
When  the  rosy,  orient  beams, 

Shades  of  morning  twilight,  banish." 

XIII. 

"  Yes,  Mary — I  have  marked  it  all, 
And  I  have  paced  my  father's  hall 
For  hours  together — musing  lone 
On  former  days,  forever  flown, 
When  Henry  Clare  and  I  were  friends. 
Methinks  the  rivulet  which  wends 
So  stilly  thro'  the  college-green, 
Dear  place  of  many  a  mirthful  scene  ! 
Bears  witness  to  the  debt  he  owes 
One  whom  he  classes  with  his  foes. 
God  knows  my  heart — and  Henry  Clare 


FRIENDSHIP.  95 

Remains  the  same  as  ever  there  ! 
I  am  his  friend — bound  by  an  oath 
Which  beareth  equally  on  both  ; 
But  he,  it  seems,  desires  to  sever 
The  tie  he  vowed  should  last  forever. 


XIV. 

When,  from  that  deep  and  sable  tide, 

I  bore  him  helpless  to  the  shore, 
He  quite  forgot  his  native  pride, 

And  kindly  thanked  me,  o'er  and  o'er. 
'  (rive  me  thy  hand,  my  friend  !'  he  cried, 

'  For  bravely,  nobly,  hast  thou  done  ; 
Whate'er  our  future  lives  betide, 

Remember,  Merton,  we  are  one.n 

xv. 

Things  light  as  air  disturb  our  rest, 
When  jealousy  becomes  a  guest. 
Oh  !  they  who  would  in  friendship  dwell, 
Should  guard  their  wayward  passions  well ; 
A  look,  a  word,  or  tone  awry 
May  sever  friendship's  brittle  tie  ! 
I  long  have  known  the  reason  why 
He  watcheth  me  with  jealous  eye : 
Nay,  start  not,  Mary ! — not  to  thee 
Belongs  the  evil — but  to  me ; 


96  FRIENDSHIP. 

I  am  the  cause,  and  I  will  bide 
Him  and  his  frowns — alike  defied ! 
But  see ! — the  sun  hath  sunk  to  rest, 
Beneath  the  brightly-beaming  west ; 
Come,  let  us  to  our  homes  repair, 
And  better  think  of  Henry  Clare." 


FRIENDSHIP. 

PART     SECOND. 

EVENING'S  sable  curtain  fell 
Silently  on  wood  and  dell : 
Naught  was  heard  on  plain  or  Jiill, 
Save  the  wailing  whip-poor-will : 
Naught  was  seen  on  earth  or  air, 

Save  the  firefly's  little  lamp, 
Flashing  brightly  here  and  there, 

Over  moor  and  meadow  damp ; 
When,  before  his  father's  door, 

On  the  cool  piazza,  pacing, 
Merton  Howard,  o'er  and  o'er, 

His  lone  footsteps  was  retracing. 
Softly,  calmly,  streamed  the  moon 

On  his  forehead,  pale  and  high ; 
And  his  eye  of  azure  shone 
As  serenely  as  her  own, 

In  the  bright  and  boundless  sky. 
Oh !  it  was  the  minstrel  hour, 
And  he  felt  its  magic  power. 
Who,  in  manhood's  sunny  morning, 

Hath  not  felt  the  same, 
When  the  Star  of  Love  was  dawning, 

Kindling  into  flame? 

9* 


98  FRIENDSHIP. 

II. 

Merton,  as  I've  said  before, 
Fondly  loved  the  minstrel  lore  ; 
And  his  genius,  bright  and  strong, 
Bore  him  buoyantly  along 
The  ever-varied  tide  of  song. 
In  the  future  and  his  Mary, 

All  his  soul  was  centred  then ; 
And  his  thoughts,  (how  thoughts  will  vary ! 

With  the  bard  as  other  men,) 
Came  in  measured  cadence  free, 
Clothed  in  robes  of  poesy. 

SONG. 

WHEN  the  evening  skies  are  glowing 

With  a  rich,  vermilion  hue, 
And  the  zephyrs  gently  blowing, 

Sigh  the  leafy  forest  through — 

When  the  birds  among  the  bowers, 
Sing  their  farewell  to  the  day, 

And  the  bees  forsake  the  flowers 
For  their  homes,  so  (ar  away — 

When  the  milkmaid's  cheerful  ballad 

Floats  along  the  silent  dale, 
And  Diana,  wan  nnd  pallid, 

Throws  aside  her  azure  veil — 


FRIENDSHIP.  99 

Then,  my  dearest,  will  we  wander 

By  the  lovely  Hudson's  side ; 
I,  thy  cheerful,  happy  husband, 

Thou,  my  modest,  pleasant  bride ; 

And  those  waters,  smoothly  flowing 

To  the  fair  and  far-off  sea, 
No  rude  winds  upon  them  blowing, 

An  index  of  our  life  shall  be. 


HI. 

The  lover  paused ; — for,  o'er  his  soul, 
A  secret  sense  of  evil  stole ; 
A  sadness,  better  felt  than  told, 
That  all  may  feel,  but  few  unfold; 
A  boding  something,  whispering  low 
The  mournful  notes  of  coming  woe. 
All  he  had  fancied,  seen,  or  heard, 
Mysterious  action,  look,  or  word, 
Before  his  vision  quickly  pass'd, 
Like  shadows  o'er  a  landscape  cast ; 
And  Love  and  Anger,  strangely  blent, 
A  wildness  to  his  features  lent ; 
And  hope  and  doubt,  alternately, 
Or  blanch'd  his  cheek,  or  fired  his  eye. 
"I1  was  but  an  instnnt : — Love  and  Faith 
United  are  in  life  and  death! 


100  FRIENDSHIP. 

They  rob  the  dungeon  of  its  gloom, 
And  of  its  terrors  reft  the  tomb ; 
They  shed  a  halo  o'er  our  way, 
A  quenchless  light — a  living  ray — 
Bright,  cheering,  omnipresent,  free, 
And  beautiful,  exceedingly. 
And,  though  his  mind  was- passion-tost, 
And  though  his  former  friend  was  lost, 

Ne'er  to  be  won  again, 
The  lover  felt  their  influence, 
Resistless,  pure,  sublime,  intense, 

And  ended  thus  his  strain — 

"Come  what  will,  this  heart  shall  bide  it! 

Strong  in  right  and  purity, 
All  the  ills  that  may  betide  it 
Shall  not  shake  its  constancy. 

Tho'  my  former  friend  forsake  me, 
Tho'  he  prove  my  deadliest  foe, 

Tho',  in  madness,  he  mistake  me, 
And  forget  his  sacred  vow ; 

Tho'  his  jealous  passion  sever 
Every  tie  by  friendship  wove — 

Yet,  no  act  of  his  shall  ever 
Shake  my  faith  in  Mary's  love. 


FRIENDSHIP.  101 


Love,  like  hers,  can  never  falter, 
'Tis  too  heavenly,  too  divine ; 

And,  before  creation's  altar, 
She  has  promised  to  be  mine." 


IV. 

Oh  Love !  eternal  Love !  thou  art 

What  all  cari'/ee/,  but/ew  can  tell; 
The  diapason  of  the  heart — 

The  light  of  heaven — the  scourge  of  hell ! 
For  thee,  the  hero  draws  his  sword ; 

For  thee,  the  maid  in  secret  pines; 
For  thee,  the  votive  lay  is  pour'd 

In  tuneful  numbers — measured  lines. 
Each  sterner  passion  yields  to  thee, 

All,  all  absorbed  in  thee  alone : 
Thy  light  is  shed  impartially 
Throughout  the  world — from  zone  to  zone. 
In  festive  cities  thou  art  seen ; 

In  lowly  hamlets  thou  art  known ; 
Thou  smilest  on  the  cottage-green, 

As  sweetly  as  around  a  throne. 
In  all — thro'  all — thy  breath  divine 

Breathes  inspiration,  fervently : 
All  own  thy  universal  shrine, 

And  bow,  the  willing  slaves  of  thee. 


102 


FRIENDSHIP. 


V. 

There  be,  who  say  that  love,  at  best, 
Is  but  the  "modern  fair  one's  jest;" 
That  they  who  feel  its  influence, 
Or  think  they  feel,  are  void  of  sense ; 
That  its  deluded  votaries 
Are  smit  with  something  no  one  sees, 
And  sigh  and  dream  their  hearts  away, 
To  wake,  and  find  their  charmers — clay! 
True,  there  is  many  a  modern  fair 
Who  ill  deserves  the  name  they  bear ; 
Whose  lives  are  spent  in  coquetting, 
And  flirting  round  in  folly's  ring ; 
Whose  chief  ambition  is  to  gain 
The  praises  of  some  silly  swain, 
(Who  knows1  no  better  than  caress 
Such  apes  of  woman's  loveliness !) 
And  reign  the  idol  of  his  eyes, 
In  fashion's  fitful  vanities ! 
Yes, — such  there  are  that  live  and  move — 
But  deem  not  their  vile  passion  love  / 


VI. 


Oh!  canst  thou  e'er  forget  the  one 

Thy  heart  hath  singled  from  the  world? 
With  whom  to  live  and  die  alone, 


FRIENDSHIP.  103 

Thou  deem'st  a  happiness  unknown 

'To  those  in  Pleasure's  vortex  hurl'd! 
Canst  thou  forget  the  words  that  fell, 

In  courtship's  bright  and  sunny  days, 
From  lips  where  music  loved  to  dwell, 

And  harmonize  her  sweetest  lays  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  the  one  who  shares 

Thy  sorrow  in  affliction's  gloom? 
The  partner  of  thy  earthly  cares, 

And  star  that  lights  thee  to  the  tomb  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  the  one  who  joys, 

When  thou  art  joyous  in  thy  mood? 
Whose  highest  pleasure— only  prize — 

Is  thee,  and  working  for  thy  good  ? 
Oh !  if  thou  canst,  thou  ne'er  hast  known 

The  bliss  of  love — the  light  of  heaven ! 
The' greatest  blessing  to  us  shown, 

The  only  lasting  pleasure  given. 


VII. 

The  lover's  lay  was  scarcely  said, 
Before  he  heard  a  horses  tread 

Come  clatt'ring  o'er  the  ground  ; 
And  soon  before  the  mansion  fair, 
A  youthful  rider,  halting  there, 

Alighted  with  a  bound. 
With  careless  air  he  threw  the  rein 


104  FRIENDSHIP. 

Upon  the  courser's  flowing  mane, 
(For  well  that  steed  was  taught  to  stand, 
Train'd  by  a  skillful  master's  hand,) 
And  turn'd  his  footsteps,  light  and  free, 

To  where  the  mansion  rose, 
Lit  by  the  moonbeams  beauteously, 

Serene  in  Night's  repose. 
He  gave  the  greeting  of  the  hour 

To  Merton,  standing  there  ; 
,  And — what  event  can  have  the  power 

To  blanch  thy  cheek  so  fair  ? 
Not,  Merton!  surely  not  to  thee 
It  bodeth  evil  augury, 

That  little  scroll  he  gave  ? 
Yet,  wherefore  is  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 

It  cannot  be  with  dread ! 
Thy  heart  is  sheathed  in  virtue's  mail, 

And  manhood  crowns  thy  head ! 
I  read— I  read  the  tragic  tale — 

'Tis  dark  as  ocean's  midnight  wave  ! 
Pride,  honor,  friendship,  love, 
Contending  in  thy  bosom  now, 
Throw  paleness  on  thy  cheek  and  brow, 

And  nerve  thy  heart  to  move ! 


VIII. 


He  look'd  upon  the  scroll  again, 
Then  thrust  it  in  his  breast — 


FRIENDSHIP.  105 

"Gro, — tell  your  master  I  am  fain 

To  grant  him  his  request ! 
I'll  meet  him  with  the  morning's  dawn." 
No  more  was  said — the  horseman's  gone. 
And  while  his  courser,  fair  and  fleet, 
Bounds  briskly  o'er  the  level  street, 
Please  follow  Merton  to  his  room, 

And  thou  shalt  know  as  much  as  I : 
Heed  not  his  brow  of  sombre  gloom, 

Heed  not  his  dark  and  threat'ning  eye. 
That  brow  was  lately  pale  as  death, 

Late  beam'd  that  eye  with  love  alone  ; 
But,  while  the  sword  is  in  its  sheath, 

Its  metal  is  untried,  unknown. 
'Tis  but  the  gust  of  passion  sweeping 

Over  his  features — soon  'twill  pass  ; 
And  gentle  as  a  maiden  weeping, 

Thou  shalt  behold  him  what  he  was. 

IX. 

The  scroll  is  in  his  hand  again, 

And  all  his  actions  but  discover 
That  it  hath  caused  peculiar  pain, 

Known — only  known — to  friend  or  lover  ! 
Hark  !  with  a  hoarse,  sepulchral  tone, 

And  voice  that  trembles  as  he  reads, 
He  cons  it  o'er  once  more  alone  ; 

Ah  me  !  his  heart  within  him  bleeds  ! 


106  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  ties  of  friendship  and  of  love 
Must  be  forever — ever  broken  ! 

In  vain  the  voice  of  wisdom  strove  ; 

'Tis  done  ! — the  fatal  words  are  spoken  ! 


x. 

TO    MERTON    HOWARD. 

'  Five  years  have  pass'd  since  you  and  I 

Were  college  boys,  and  dwelt  together  ; 
Few  clouds  have  darken'd  in  our  sky, 

But  now  approaches  stormy  weather  ! 
'Tis  fortune  sways  our  destiny, 
And  we  must  bow  to  her  decree ; 
And  love,  and  faith,  and  friendship  yield, 
When  passion  triumphs  o'er  the  field. 
There  was  a  time — a  happy  time— 

When  youthful  life  was  in  its  spring, 
When  Fancy's  fairies  smiled  sublime, 

And  pleasure  danced  upon  the  wing  ! 
When  I  had  never  seen  the  maid 

Whose  beauty  stole  my  heart  away  : 
Irradiate  beauty  ! — such  as  play'd 

Before  my  mind  in  earlier  day  ; 
Ere  I  had  thought,  beneath  the  skies, 
There  dwelt  such  form — there  shone  such  eyes ! 
Ere  I  had  thought,  beneath  the  sun, 
There  lived  a  solitary  one, 


FRIENDSHIP.  107 

Who  had  the  power  to  make  my  word 
Light  as  the  air  that  round  me  stirred ! 
And  worthless  as  the  memory 
Of  recreant  friends — alas,  like  me  ! 


XI. 

Yes,  Merton  !  yes — there  was  a  time — 

And  oh  !  that  I  should  say  there  was  ! 
When  I  was  all  unknown  to  crime, 

And  we  were  bound  by  friendship's  laws. 
But  time  has  altered — so  have  we  ! 

We  once  were  friends — we  now  are  foes  ! 
Then  what  availeth  this  from  me  ? 

'Tis  idle  as  the  wind  that  blows  ! 
I  long  have  known  the  mutual  love 

Which  rules  your  own  and  Mary's  breast ; 
And  I  have  sworn  by  all  above, 

This  heart  shalLknow  eternal  rest, 
Ere  you  shall  clasp  her  willing  hand 
In  Hymen's  life-enduring  band  ! 
Yes,  I  have  sworn  it,  and  my  oath 
Shall  prosper  one,  or  ruin  both  ! 


XII. 

This  afternoon  I  saw  you  rove, 

All  hand  in  hand,  and  side  by  side ; 


108  FRIENDSHIP. 

And  inly  said — those  links  of  love 

I  purpose  shortly  to  divide ! 
Ay, — Mary  shall  be  mine  ! — or  I, 
Or  Merton  Howard,  soon  shall  die  ! 
This  world  is  all  too  small,  I  ween, 
For  both,  while  Mary  stands  between ! 
Since  only  one,  not  both,  can  share 
Her  wedded  love — her  faithful  care. 


XIII. 

I've  thought  of  every  former  tie, 

And  of  the  plighted  word  I  gave, 
When  you  so  nobly — gallantly — 

Retrieved  me  from  a  watery  grave: 
And  even  now,  with  all  my  heart, 

I  thank  you  for  the  gen'rous  deed ! 
It  claims  from  me  a  nobler  part, 

It  claims  from  me  a  better  meed : 
And  yet,  oh  !  yet, — I  cannot  bend  ! 

This  stubborn  soul  is  all  too  high ; 
So  fare  thee  well,  my  noble  friend ! 

It  is  the  doom  of  destiny ! 
We'll  meet  again, — but  meet  no  more 
As  we  have  ever  met  before  ; 
We'll  meet  again — and  meet  to  prove 
How  faithless  Friendship  yields  to  Love  ; 
Yes — we  will  meet  to-morrow  morn, 
Ere  golden  Phrebus  kiss  the  lawn, 


FRIENDSHIP.  109 

Prepared  to  bid  a  long  adieu 
To  each  —  perhaps  to  Mary,  too  ! 

XIV. 

You  know  the  grove  where  we  have  play'd, 

In  happy  childhood,  many  an  hour; 
Or  sheltered  'neath  its  cooling  shade, 

When  fierce  the  noon-day  sun  did  pour  ; 
Be  that  our  place  of  meeting,  then  — 
I  feel  we  ne'er  shall  meet  again  — 
And  it  were  sweet  to  live  or  die 
Beneath  its  rustling  canopy. 
Choose  your  own  weapon  —  I've  no  choice  ; 

Pistol  or  sword  —  'tis  one  to  me  ; 
And  yet,  in  sooth,  the  former's  voice 

May  draw  unwelcome  company! 
No  matter  —  it  must  soon  be  known  — 

So  choose  whujjijrf  the  two  you  please  : 
Remember,  'tis  at  early  dawn, 

Before  the  warblers  leave  the  trees." 


xv. 
It  is  the  morn  —  it  is  the  hour  — 

Why  is  not  Merton  at  the  grove  ? 
Aurora  lights  the  green-  wood  bower, 

And  warblers  tune  their  hymns  of  love. 
The  dew  is  pearly  on  the  lawn, 

1U* 


110  FRIENDSHIP. 

And,  burnished  by  the  rosy  dawn, 
Appears  like  gems,  so  rich  and  rare, 
That  sparkle  bright  in  Beauty's  hair. 
Ye  who  have  felt  the  flame  of  love, 

In  early  manhood's  golden  glow, 
Have  felt  your  spirits  borne  above 

This  world,  and  all  things  here  below ! 
Ye  did  not  live  as  other  men ; 

Ye  did  not  think  as  others  thought ; 
Ye  trode  the  land  of  fairies,  then, 

And  every  scene  was  fancy- wrought ! 
The  object  of  your  dreams  was  one 

That  haunts  the  poet's  fevered  brain ; 
Such  as  we  ne'er  can  gaze  upon, 

And  only  hope  to  see  in  vain. 


XVI. 

Yes, — ye  who  have  experienced  this,     . 

Can  tell  why  Merton  was  not  there. 
His  every  hope  of  earthly  bliss 

Was  centred  in  one  being  fair  : 
His  Mary  ! — could  he  leave  her,  then, 

Without  one  fervent,  fond  adieu  ? 
No  !  sooner  shall  the  dew-drop  stain 

The  opening  rose  it  falls  into ! 
Than  he  engage  in  mortal  strife, 

Without  a  parting  word  with  her  ! — 


FRIENDSHIP.  Ill 


She  was  the  idol  of  his  life, 

And  he  her  willing  worshipper  ! 


XVII. 

Proud  Henry  Clare,  already  there, 

Is  chafing  at  the  long  delay  : 
His  ardent  spirit  ill  can  bear 

To-  brook  his  foeman's  longer  stay. 
Each  fleeting  moment  seems  an  hour  : — 

Slow  wheels  the  sun  above  the  hills, 
Kissing  the  dew  from  every  flower, 

And  burnishing  the  rills. 
Hark  !  from  the  distant  road  there  breaks 

The  echo  of  a  horse's  tread  ! 
The  blood  is  mantling  in  his  cheeks — 

'Tis  eargerness^Jie  knows  not  dread. 
Near  and  more  near  the  sounds  arise, 
'Till,  in  the  distance,  he  descries 
A  horseman,  briskly  bounding  forward — 
The  die  is  cast— 'tis  Merton  Howard  ! 


They  met — alas  !  that  it  should  be  I— 
They  fought,  and  long — each  bled  in  turn  ! 

They  fell — one  wounded  mortally  ! — 
Victim  of  pride  and  jealousy, 

Unhappy  Clare  !  thy  lamp  hath  ceased  to  burn. 


112  FRIENDSHIP. 

XVIII. 

Change  we  the  scene  : — the  summer's  fled, 
And  autumn  paints  the  forest  red  ; 
And  mild,  and  bright,  and  beautiful, 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  west  ; 
While  gently-breathing  zephyrs  lull 

The  dying  day  to  rest. 
A  cheerful  band  of  old  and  young 

Is  gathered  in  a  spacious  hall ; 
And  every  heart,  and  every  tongue, 

Seems  suited  to  a  festival. 
And  Mary — lovely  Mary's  there  ! 
Gay  as  the  rose  that  decks  her  hair, 
Snatch'd  from  the  stem  on  which  it  grew, 
That  morn,  ere  Phoebus  kiss'd  the  dew, 
And  placed  where  ye  behold  it  now, 
By  him  who  claims  her  nuptial  vow, 
As  emblem  meet  of  one  so  fair, 
And  badge  of  Merton  Howard's  care. 


AFAR    FROM    THEE. 


AFAR  from  thee — my  spirit  now 

Is  brooding  o'er  the  dreamy  past ; 
And  o'er  my 'early-furrow 'd  brow 

The  shades  of  thought  are  thronging  fast. 
As  turns  the  needle  to  the  pole, 

.Forever  with  fidelity, 
So  turns  the  magnet  of  my  soul, 

Where'er  thou  art,  my  love,  to  thee. 

Twelve  years  ago — they  bear  me  back 

To  when  I  first  beheld  and  loved  thee  ; 
And  thro'  their  dim  and  devious  track, 

Light  of  my  life  !  I  well  have  proved  thee. 
Though  clouds  obscured  our  love's  first  rays, 

And  fortune's  frowns  around  did  hover, 
Yet  still  those  days  were  happy  days, 

For  thou  wert  constant  to  thy  lover. 

Twelve  years  ago — do  not  these  words 

Revive  the  buried  Past  again  ? 
Its  joys,  like  melody  of  birds, 

Its  griefs,  like  madness  in  the  brain? 


114  AFAR    FROM    THEE. 

'Tis  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour  ; 

Alone — afar  from  thee,  am  I ; 
Inspired  by  Love's  own  hallow'd  power, 

My  feelings  gush  in  poesy. 

And  memory  loves  to  wander  now 

Amid  the  scenes  thro'  which  we've  passed, 
As  sunbeams,  o'er  the  mountain's  brow, 

A  bright  and  soften'd  beauty  cast ; 
So  memory  throws  a  halo  o'er 

The  sunny  scenes  of  courtship's  days, 
And  makes  each  object,  loved  before, 

Seem  lovelier  in  its  mellow  rays. 

Thine  was  a  soul  to  brave  the  shock 

Of  Passion's  fiercest,  sternest  strife  ; 
And  firmer  far  than  "  Ailsa  rock," 

Thy  constancy,  my  loving  wife  ! 
Fair  was  the  day  that  saw  thee  mine, 

And  blest  for  aye  its  memory  ; 
That  love,  that  wedded  faith  of  thine, 

Is  more  than  all  the  world  to  me  ! 

When  pleasure  sparkles  in  my  eye, 
And  health  and  happiness  are  given, 

Thou  art  the  sharer  of  my  joy, 

The  partner  of  my  earthly  heaven  ! 


AFAR    FROM    THEE.  115 

And  when  disease  and  anguish  come, 
Or  grief  and  wretchedness  are  mine, 

Thou  art  a  light  within  my  home, 
Whose  constant  beams  forever  shine  ! 


Bright  are  the  stars  above  me  now, 

And  fair  the  moon  amid  the  skies  ; 
But  fairer  is  thy  placid  brow, 

And  brighter  are  thy  love-lit  eyes  ! 
They  only  glow  in  borrow'd  light, 

They  but  reflected  lustre  show  ; 
But,  from  a  soul  forever  bright, 

Thy  actions,  thoughts,  and  beauties  flow. 

"We  scarce  may  know  how  strong  the  ties 

That  Love  has  woVfcaJround  the  heart, 
Nor  may  we  fully  realize 

How  of  ourselves  they  are  a  part — 
'Till  absence,  distance,  time,  arise 

Between  us  and  our  wedded  love  ; 
Oh  !  then  we  know  how  much  we  prize 

That  love,  that  one,  all  else  above. 

Farewell ! — the  midnight  hour  is  waning, 

The  cricket  chirrups  dreamily, 
The  moon  her  downward  course  is  gaining, 

And  still  I  pour  my  soul  to  thee  ! — 


116  AFAR    FROM    THEE. 

Farewell ! — a  few  brief  days  of  pleasure, 

To  thee,  I  hope,  if  not  to  me, 
Must  pass  ; — and  then,  my  bosom's  treasure  ! 

I  come,  in  rapturous  love,  to  thee. 
August,  1845. 


SONG. 

THE  Star  of  Hope  beams  brightly 

In  youth's  unclouded  sky  ; 
The  hand  of  Time  lies  lightly, 

Ere  life's  first  pleasures  die  ! 
Our  passions  and  our  feelings 

Crush  out  in  harmony  : 
The  beautiful  revealings 

Of  spirits  pure  and  free  ! 

In  happiness  arid  gladness, 

The  rosy  hours  glide  on  ; 
And  not  a  cloud  of  sadness 

Lowers  in  the  horizon. 
Oh  !  'tis  a  dream  of  beauty ! 

The  poetry  of  life — 
Ere  years  of  sterner  duty 

Unfold  their  scenes  of  strife. 

The  world  is  bright  before  us, 

Our  pathway  strew'd  with  flowers, 

A  smiling  heaven  o'er  us, 
And  every  blessing  ours  : 
it 


118  SONG. 

In  love,  and  all  its  treasures, 

We  revel  joyously : 
And  can  celestial  pleasures, 

Than  these,  more  blissful  be  ? 

Oh  !  who  would  mar  this  picture, 

Its  beauty  and  its  truth  ? 
Or  who,  with  stoic  stricture, 

Alloy  the  joys  of  youth  ? 
Dark,  dark  must  be  the  spirit 

Would  dash  a  scene  so  fair ; 
Fit  only  to  inherit 

The  cowl  and  scapulaire  ! 


IMMORTALITY 


"  When  coldness  wraps  this  sufTring  clay, 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind?" — BYRON. 


THE  tide  of  Time,  forever  flowing  on, 

Bears  our  frail  bubbles  to  eternity  ; 
We  live,  we  move,  we  perish,  and  are  gone, 

But  whither,  whither  do  our  spirits  flee  ? 

The  regal  mind — the  intellectual  man — 
All  that  which  seems  of  immortality — 

Does  it  conform  to  Nature's  gen'ral  plan  ? 
Or  does  it  to  its  parent  fountain  flee  ? 

And  where  that  fountain  ? — where  great  Nature's 
source  ? — 

Does  it  exist  in  some  afar-off  place  ? 
Or  do  we,  in  our  ever-onward  course, 

Behold  that  fountain  ? — see  our  Maker's  face  ? 

The  very  thoughts  which  rush  upon  our  minds, 
Unsought,  unbidden,  uncontroll'd  and  free  ; 

The  ceaseless  wanderings  of  the  viewless  winds, 
The  deep  pulsations  of  the  mighty  sea — 


120  IMMORTALITY. 

The  myriad  stars  which  gem  night's  sable  brow, 
The  spring's  green  freshness,  and  the  summer's 
bloom, 

Proclaim  His  omnipresence — and  avow 

Earth,  Ocean,  Heaven,  His  universal  home. 

And  tho'  our  minds,  forsaken  by  our  clay, 
Are  all  unfettered  by  each  earthly  tie, 

They  need  not  from  their  old  endearments  stray, 
Nor  leave  this  world  for  immortality. 

The  cares  of  earth  attach  to  earth  alone  ; 

The  soul,  embodied,  acts  from  sympathy ; 
But  when  our  dust  to  kindred  dust  is  gone, 

Lo !  Heaven  is  open,  and  the  soul  is  free ! 


TO 


5 
ON   RECELV1NG   A   LOCK  OF   HER  HAIR. 

THIS  little  tress  of  glossy  hair — 
Of  what  is  it,  dear  girl,  the  token  ? 

Does  it  the  badge  of  friendship  bear  ? 
Or  does  it  tell  of  love  unspoken  ? 

Friendship,. alas  !  is  but  a  veil, 
Worn  to  deceive  by  the  deceiver  ; 

As  false,  as  fickle  as  the  gale 

That  sweeps  the  breast  of  yonder  river  ! 

Love, — pure,  sublime,  and  passionless, 
On  Beauty's  cheek  serenely  smiling, 

Points  to  the  path  of  happiness, 

Enhancing  joy  and  grief  beguiling. 

Yes,  Lave: — and  naught  beside,  dear  girl, 
Is  worthy  of  the  gift  or.  giver ! — 

This  tress  is  fairer  than  a  pearl, 

And  cherished  more  by  the  receiver. 

I'll  keep  it  for  thy  sake  and  mine, 
And  fondly,  proudly,  will  I  wear  it, 

'Till  fate  our  fortunes  shall  entwine, 
Or  naught  remain  of . 

n* 


ASPIRATION. 


1 1  hope  that  I  may  still  produce  something  which  will  survive  roe."— H.  K.  WHITI. 


SOMETHING  that  shall  outlive  me — 

Some  vestige  for  mankind ; 
Something  that  will  revive  me, 

And  call  my  name  to  mind, 
When  death's  dark  pall  is  o'er  me  cast, 
And  I  am  with  the  buried  past. 

Tho'  vain,  perhaps,  and  idle, 

This  foolish,  fond  desire ; 
Yet,  yet  I  cannot  bridle 

The  hope,  that  dare  aspire 
To  leave  some  trace  that  I  have  been 
An  actor  in  life's  chequered  scene  ! 

I  know  the  wreath  of  glory, 

Entwining  Homer's  name, 
Cannot  conceal  his  story, 

Ur  hide  his  country's  shame  : 
And  more  I  know — who  knows  it  uot  .' 
His  is  the  Poet's  common  lot ! 


ASPIRATION. 


123 


Yet  do  I  burn  to  number 

Those  deathless  bards  among, 

Whose  fame  shall  never  slumber, 
Whose  names  are  wed  to  song : 

Beside  their  names  to  place  my  own, 

Defying  time — to  death  unknown  ! 


STANZAS. 

WRITTEN  IN   ILLNESS. 

I  DO  not  fear  to  meet  my  doom, 

Whatever  it  may  be ; 
I  do  not  fear  the  "hour  to  come," 

So  veiled  in  mystery ! 
'Tis  but  the  portal  to  a  home 

Of  immortality. 

The  God  of  Nature  placed  me  here, 
And  he  can  take  me  hence ; 

Nor  do  I  grieve  to  leave  this  sphere 
Of  human  heritance ; 

And  few  for  me  will  lose  a  tear, 
In  friendship  or  pretence. 

Thus  far  I've  lived  thro'  good  and  ill, 

Thus,  still,  I  linger  on ; 
And  for  the  future — "not  my  will, 

But  thine,  oh  Lord!  be  done  !" 
Thou  art  all-merciful,  and  still 

Rememberest  thine  own. 
1834. 


WOMAN. 

AROUND  thy  name,  oh  woman !  there 
Is  thrown  a  halo,  which  belongs 

Not  unto  earth — a  form,  more  fair 
Than  poets  picture  in  their  songs. 

And,  but  for  thee,  this  world  were  lone 
And  cheerless  as  some  desert  isle : 

Where'er  thou  ^wellest,  love  is  known, 
And  happiness  is  in  thy  smile. 

Thou  art  man's,  chart  thro'  good  and  ill, 
The  guide-star  of  his  destiny  ; 

Bow'd  at  thy  shrine,  his  stubborn  will 
Half  owns  itself  the  slave  of  thee  ! 

Through  every  adverse  storm  of  life, 
Thou  standest  firmly,  yet  resign'd  ; 

To  thee  we  fly  from  care  and  strife, 
Where  peace  and  virtue  are  enshrin'd. 


PRAYER    OF   REASON. 

OH,  thou  Supreme,  Almighty  Cause  ! 

Whatever  be  thy  various  name — 
Who  fram'd  great  Nature's  perfect  laws, 

Sublime,  eternal,  and  the  same  : 

We  know  thee  wise— creation  wide 
Displays  thy  wisdom  everywhere  ; 

We  know  thee  just — naught  is  denied 
That  claims  a  parent's  equal  care : 

We  know  thee  merciful — replete 
With  mercy  is  the  varied  year  ; 

In  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat, 
Thy  many  mercies  do  appear  : 

We  know  thee  good — yea,  goodness  is 
Thy  very  spirit  and  thy  name  ! 

The  earth,  the  heavens,  and  the  seas 
Alike  thy  goodness  all  proclaim. 

Then  why,  oh  universal  Good  ! 

Should  we,  thy  children,  bow  in  prayer, 
And  on  thy  sacred  ear  intrude 

Our  vain,  imaginary  care  ? 


PRAYER    OF    REASON.  127 

What  can  we  pray  for  ? — have  we  not 

All  that  our  sober  senses  crave  ? 
Thou  carest  for  our  present  lot, 

If  need,  canst  care  beyond  the  grave. 

If  thou  art  omnipresent,  thou 

Canst  see  us,  wheresoe'er  we  be  ; 

And  if  omniscient,  then  our  woe 

And  weal  are  surely  known  to  thee. 

And,  if  thou  art  omnipotent, 

Thou  canst  control  our  destiny  ; 
And  wilt  not  doom>fo  punishment 

WJiat  ne'er  had  power  to  injure  thee : 

For,  in  our  state  of  being  here, 

We  had  nor  choice  nor  agency  ; 
And  Justice,  Love,  and  Mercy  are      „> 

The  attributes  ascribed  to  thee. 


GOD'S   HALLOWED    DAY. 


"The  beams  of  God's  own  hallow'd  day 
Have  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold  ; 
And,  calling  sinfnl  man  to  pray, 
T-ong,  load,  and  deep  its  bell  has  toll'd." — SCOTT. 


WHY  call'd  he  this  "  (rod's  hallow'd  day  ?" 

As  if  all  other  days  were  not ; 
Why  bend  to  Superstition's  sway, 

That  mighty  minstrel — Walter  Scott  ? 
Oh  !  even  he,  whose  genius  now 

Astounds  the  world  from  pole  to  pole, 
Did,  at  the  Bigot's  altar,  bow 

The  independence  of  his  soul ! 

Strong  is  the  spell  that  Error  weaves, 

In  midnight  madness,  for  mankind  ; 
And  deep  the  trace  that  Error  leaves 

Impress'd  upon  the  human  mind  : 
Bright  must  the  rays  of  Science  break, 

And  strong  the  power  of  Truth  must  be, 
Ere  men  from  Error's  trance  awake, 

And  think,  and  act,  and  dare  be  free ! 


GOD'S    HALLOWED    DAY.  129 

Why  call'd  he  this  "  God's  hallow'd  day?" 

The  world  around  him  call'd  it  so — 
And  he,  per  force,  must  frame  his  lay 

To  please  the  minds  of  high  and  low  : 
God !  that  a  soul  like  his  should  bend 

To  Superstition's  iron  thrall ! 
And  from  its  native  heaven  descend 

To  spirit-bondage — worst  of  all ! 


'Tis  sad  to  see  the  meanest  slave, 

That  ever  bowed  to  tyrant's  ban, 
Denied  the  boon  whifcijJN'ature  gave, 

And  lost  to  all  the  rights  of  man  ; 
But  to  behold  the  mighty  mind 

Of  him  who  charm'd  the  world  with  song, 
Stoop  to  the  errors  of  mankind,    • 

Might  sorrow  claim  from  Sibyl's  tongue  ! 


Why  call'd  he  this  "  God's  hallow'd  day  ?" 

Are  not  all  days  God's  hallow'd  days  ? 
And  do  they  not,  alike,  display 

His  goodness,  majesty,  and  praise  ? 
The  sun  as  brightly  shines  as  ever, 

The  feathered  choirs  as  blithely  sing, 
As  smoothly  flows  the  limpid  river, 

As  sweetly  smiles  the  face  of  spring  ; 


130  GOD'S    HALLOWED    DAY. 

As  gaily  float  the  clouds  above  us, 

As  freely  comes  unbidden  thought, 
And  deathless  ties  and  passions  prove  us 

The  same  at  all  times— do  they  not  ? 
Oh  !  if  the  countless  boons  of  Heaven, 

Which  every  varying  clime  displays, 
Are  blessing's  to  earth's  children  given, 

Then  are  all  days  "  God's  hallow >d"  days  ! 
April,  1845. 


SONG-  OF  THE  ENTHUSIAST  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

COME — the  vesper  star  is  beaming 

In  the  rosy  western  sky, 
And  the  silver  moonlight  gleaming 

On  the  placid  river  nigh.  , 

Birds  among  the  boughs  are  sleeping, 
Theyliave  sung  their  farewell  lay, 

And  the  dewy  air  is  weeping 
Over  flow'ret,  plaiit^and  spray. 

Come,  and  let  us  rove  together, 

For  the  while  forgetting  care  : 
We  have  braved  Life's  stormy  weather, 

And  we  will  enjoy  its  fair. 

On  the  shore  of  yonder  river, 

Where  our  young  hearts  first  kneW  love, 
And  our  spirits  join'd  forever — 

By  this  moonlight  we  will  rove. 

Lovely  June  is  decked  with  roses, 
All  around  us  breathes  perfume  ; 

While  the  ardent  Day  reposes, 
Night  is  revelling  in  bloom. 


SONG    OF    THE    ENTHUSIAST    TO    HIS    WIFE. 

'Tis  the  very  hour  for  lovers, 

Kindred  thoughts  their  bosoms  fill, 

And  a  solemn  silence  hovers 
Over  nature — vast  and  still. 

Save  the  song  so  faintly  coming 
From  yon  vessel,  gliding  by, 

And  the  busy  beetle,  humming, 
Naught  is  heard  in  earth  or  sky. 

We  have  known  Life's  stormy  weather- 
Fortune  frown'd  upon  our  love, — 

Pride  and  anger,  leagued  together, 
'Gainst  our  union  strongly  strove. 

Wealth,  and  honor,  and  dominion 
Grirt  thee  with  united  power  ; 

But  thy  noble  spirit's  pinion 
Rested  in  my  humble  bower. 

And  believe  me,  ever  dearest, 
Thine  is  no  unworthy  choice  : 

By  the  Grod  whom  thou  re ve rest, 
Nations  yet  shall  hear  my  voice  ! 

Smile  not,  loved  one  ! — the  free  spirit 
Cannot  always  brook  control : 

Mental  power  I  do  inherit — 
Mine  is  not  a  plebeian  soul ! 


SONG    OF    THE    ENTHUSIAST    TO    HIS    WIFE.        133 

Tho'  I'm  now  obscure  and  lonely. 

And  by  poverty  beset, — 
There's  an  orbit  for  me  only, 

And  ril  fill  that  orbit  yet ! 

Then  in  gladness  will  we  wander, 

Even  as  we  wander  now, 
Where  the  Hudson's  waves  meander 

'Neath  the-pine's  o'erhanging  bough — 

And  revive  the  truthful  story 

Of  our  old,  romantic  love  ; 
While  the  stars,  in  "a^k their  glory, 

Thro'  yon  realms  of  azure  rove. 


12* 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE    MURDERED. 


IN  a  lonely  glen  in  the  Highlands  wild, 
Where  the  rude  rocks  frown  around, 

Where  the  speckled  rattle-snake  lies  coil'd, 
And  the  adder,  too,  is  found  ; 

Where  the  eagle  stoops  from  his  home  in  air, 
And  screams  in  the  trees  o'erhead, 

And  the  gaunt  wolf  comes  from  her  midnight  lair, 
To  batten  on  the  dead  ; 

Where  the  howl  of  the  wily  fox  is  heard, 

Ere  day  forsakes  the  sky, 
And  the  sere  leaves  of  the  wold  are  stirr'd 

By  the  panther,  prowling  nigh  ; 

Wher&  the  bones  of  murdered  travellers 

Are  bleaching  white  and  bare, 
And  the  moaning  wind,  in  passing,  stirs 

Their  scattered  locks  of  hair  ; 

Where  the  human  form  is  never  known, 

Save  when  the  murderer  dread 
Retreats  to  this  charnel-place  alone, 

With  the  relics  of  the  dead  : — 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE  MURDERED.        135 

'Tis  there — 'tis  there  that  my  restless  ghost 

Is  wandering,  night  and  day  ! 
Afar  from  the  friends  I  love  the  most — 

From  my  children  far  away  ! 

From  the  cherished  wife  of  my  bosom  torn, 

Ere  life's  meridian  day, 
And  by  ruthless  murderers  thither  borne, 

For  birds  and  beasts  a  prey  ! 

The  rains  have  fallen  on  the  spot 

Where  my  life-blood  stain'd  the  ground : 

No  trace  remains — anoNaay  friends  know  not 
Where  my  carcass  may  be  found. 

And  if  they  e'er  should  find  the  place, 

Think  ye  they'd  know  me  now  ? 
There's  neither  flesh  upon  my  face, 

Nor  skin  upon  my  brow  ! 

The  hair  has  fallen  from  my  head, 

And  blows  about  at  will ; 
The  wolf  upon  my  flesh  hath  fed, 

And  the  eagle  bathed  his  bill ! 

And  many  a  bone,  beside  my  own, 

And  many  a  skull  lie  there  ; 
Some,  like  the  stone,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 

And  some  just  bleach 'd  and  bare. 


136  COMPLAINT    OF    THE    MURDERED. 

When  the  stars  are  out  in  the  bright  blue  sky, 

And  the  living  are  asleep  ; 
When  naught  is  heard  save  the  panther's  cry, 

As  she  makes  her  fearful  leap  : — 

Our  spectre-troop — a  ghostly  train — 

Is  marching,  noiselessly, 
Afar  from  the  glen,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Each  to  his  own  countrie. 

But  when  the  cock  first  tells  of  day, 

Ere  day  is  seen  by  men, 
Like  frightened  fawns  we  hie  away 

To  our  Highland  haunt  agen. 

Last  night  as  I  stood  beside  my  home — 

The  moon  behind  a  cloud — 
My  wife  was  wailing  my  early  doom, 

My  children  weeping  loud  ! 

And  in  their  desolation  drear, 

Upon  my  name  did  call : — 
Oh  !  if  I  then  had  had  a  tear, 

A  tear  I  had  let  fall ! 

But  the  fount  of  life  is  frozen  up, 

And  the  fount  of  feeling  dry  ; 
And  I  have  drain'd  the  last  dread  cup, 

That  all  must  drain  who  die. 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE  MURDERED.        137 

Still  my  restless  ghost  is  unappeased, 

And  unappeased  must  dwell, 
Until  my  spirit  is  released 

By  a  Christian  burial.* 

*  A  vulgar  superstition. 


TO  A  FLEA  ON  A  LADY'S  DRESS. 


WHAT  want  ye  there,  ye  little  devil? 
Your  object  surely  must  be  evil  ; 

No  good 
Can  come  of  such  an  imp  uncivil, — 

Ye  thirst  for  blood  ! 

Could  ye  not  find,  in  yonder  sty, 
Enough  of  it  to  satisfy 

Yourself? 
But  ye  must  slake  your  gluttony 

On  her,  you  elf  ! 

That  silken  dress  of  stainless  hue 
Becomes  not  such  a  thing  as  you, 

You  plague  ! 
Oh !  if  I  durst,  I'd  give  a  clew 

Would  break  your  leg ! 

I  hate  ye  as  I  hate  a  bore, 

A  recreant  friend— or,  what  is  more, 

A  dun, 
When  I  have  troubles  by  the  score, 

And  money  none. 


TO  A  FLEA  ON  A  LADY'S  DRESS.       139 

Ye  are  a  pest,  by  night  and  day, 
A  thief,  that  steals  our  life  away, 

At  best, 
When,  snug  and  warm,  we  think  to  lay 

At  rest. 

To  see  ye  on  some  clownish  churl, 
Or  even  on  some  romping  girl, 

Were  queer ; 
But  then  to  see  you  on  that  pearl — 

Oh  dear!  : 

If  some  departed  friend  had  rose, 
All  ghostly  from  his  cold  repose, 

I  had  been  shock 'd ; 
But  to  behold  ye  on  her  clothes, 

My  eyes  seem  mock'd ! 

'Tis  ever  thus  with  mortals  here  ; 
They  can't  submit  to  their  own  sphere 

With  grace, 
But  thrust  themselves  where  they  appear 

Out  of  place. 

Be  still,  nor  keep  a  hopping  so, — 
Ye'll  be  upon  her  neck  of  snow, 

Ye  fool ! 
And  then,  I  ween,  ye'll  meet  a  blow 

Will  lay  ye  cool! 


140       TO  A  FLEA  ON  A  LADY's  DRESS. 

There  ! — now  ye 're  in  a  pretty  plight ! — 
That  lily  hand  has  served  ye  right, 

/  told  ye  "'twould; 
And  on  that  neck  so  fair  and  white, 

Lies  your  own  blood ! 

Men  are  alike,  both  great  and  small, 
Alike  they  tread  this  giddy  ball, 

Poor  elves ! 
They  see  their  neighbors  rise  and  fall, 

But  not  themselves. 

Whilst  I  was  gazing  at  the  flea, 
Ensconced  upon  that  fair  ladie, 

E'en  then, 
Perhaps,  a  dozen  were  seen  on  me, 

By  other  men. 


DEAR  Sal,  do  you  remember 
The  joys  of  earlier  day. 

When  you  and  I  were  sporting 
In  childhood's  sunny  ray  ? 

How  oft  we  stray 'd  together 
Into  the  waving  wood, 

Where  birds  of  every  feather 
Sang  to  the  solitude. 

How  oft  we  paus'd  and  listen'd 
Unto  each  passing  song, 

'Till,  catching  tune  and  number, 
Again  we  stroll'd  along. 

And  carelessly  and  joyfully 
We  wandered  o'er  the  hills  ; 

Or  sought  the  vernal  meadows 
Beside  the  purling  rills. 

The  violet  and  the  lily 

Were  gathered  by  us  there  ; 

And  garlands  of  them  woven, 
Did  grace  your  glossy  hair. 


142  TO  ****.. 

"We  loved  the  fruits  and  flowers, 
The  hills,  and  streams,  and  all ; 

And  we  loved  to  gather  roses 
Beside  the  garden  wall. 

We  loved  to  rove  together 
Until  the  sun  was  low, 

And  even  then,  at  parting, 

Our  tears  would  sometimes  flow. 

We  loved  to  hear  the  birds  sing 
Their  songs  of  joy  and  love, 

Whilst  rocking  in  the  tree-tops, 
Or  soaring  far  above. 

We  loved  our  brothers,  sisters, 
Our  parents,  friends,  and  all ; 

But  far,  far  more  than  either, 
We  loved  each  other,  Sal ! 

Oh!  those  were  days  of  pleasure, 
Of  innocence  and  joy ; 

You  were  a  happy  girl,  then. 
And  I  a  happy  boy. 

But  they  are  gone  forever, 
Alas ! — and  let  them  go : 

'Twere  idle  to  regret  them, 
They're  gone — and  be  it  so! 


T0  *  *  *  *  .  143 

'Tis  true,  1  fondly  cherish 

Their  memory,  even  now ; 
But  thought  of  them  hath  never 

Thrown  sadness  on  my  brow. 

Tho'  fortune  ne'er  united 

Our  hands  in  Hymen's  tie, 
You're  wedded  to  another, 

And  so,  dear  Sal,  am  I. 

And  tho'  we  loved  so  fondly, 

Some  fifteen  years  ago, 
Remembrance  should  not  shadow 

Our  present  life  with  woe. 


THE  DISCARDED  LOVER'S  APPEAL. 

IN  a  land  of  strangers  roving, 

Distant  from  my  friends  and  home, 

Thou  didst  break  the  bonds  of  loving, 
Thou  didst  coldly  seal  my  doom. 

All  the  pride  within  me  glowing 
Deeply  felt  the  sting  of  shame : 

All  the  blood  within  me  flowing 
Boil'd  like  Etna's  breast  of  flame ! 

Ev'ry  passion — ev'ry  feeling — 

"Woke,  at  the  alarum  bell ; 
To  my  inmost  soul  revealing 

All  the  troubled  sense  of  hell ! 

Not  one  reason  couldst  thou  give  me, 
Not  one  reason  canst  thou  give ; 

Thou  didst  cruelly  deceive  me, 
Thee  I  never  did  deceive. 

Thou  hast  lent  thine  ear  too  kindly 
To  the  mock-bird's  siren  song; 

Thou  hast  listened  to  it  blindly, 
'Till  thou  art  beguil'd  to  wrong! 


THE    DISCARDED    LOVER'S    APPEAL.  145 

I  have  loved  thee,  well  thou  knowest — 
Thou  hast  never  felt  the  flame, — 

Still  I  love — where'er  thou  goest, 
I  am  with  thee — aye  the  same. 

For  one  moment  calmly  ponder, 

Ere  thou  cast  me  all  away ; 
Let  thy  thoughts  one  moment  wander 

Thro'  the  scenes  of  earlier  day. 

There  are  things  thou  canst  discover, 

In  thy  faithful  memory, 
Things  all  carelessly  "glanced  over," 

Hitherto,  by  thee  and  me. 

Need  I  name  them  ? — no— I  need  not : 
Conscience  whispers  them  to  thee : — 

For  myself  I'll  further  plead  not, — 
Thine  own  bosom  pleads  for  me ! 

Tho'  my  love  is  unavailing, 

Still  I  cannot  love  thee  less  ; 
Tho'  my  sorrow,  oft  prevailing, 

Bows  my  soul  in  bitterness ; 

Tho'  my  pride,  that  ne'er  knew  kneeling, 

Urgeth  all  it  can  suggest ; — 
Still,  oh!  still,  the  same  pure  feeling 

Reigns  triumphant  in  my  breast. 


146  THE    DISCARDED    LOVER ?S    APPEAL, 

Fare  thee  well,  unfeeling  maiden  \ 
We  may  never  meet  again ; 

I  must  linger,  sorrow-laden — 
Canst  thou  revel  in  my  pain  ? 


VALEDICTORY    LINES 

TO  EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  AND  FORTY-ONE 

DEPARTED  Year,  farewell !-— thy  reign 

Can  never  be  revived  again: 

With  plants  that  grew  and  buds  that  bloom 'd, 

Thou,  too,  art  with  the  past  entomb 'd ; 

They  perish'd  in  the  summer  air, 

And  thou  art  with  the  things  that  were : 

With  snow,  that,  in  thy  infancy, 

Spread  a  white  mantle  over  thee, 

With  the  glad  hours  of  merry  May, 

With  flowers  that  bloom 'd  in  June  so  gay, 

With  leaves  that  danced  in  Autumn's  spray, 

And  with  the  last  December  day. 

Thou  hast  no  immortality, 

Beyond  what  man  awardeth  thee : 

Thy  spirit  owns  no  future  state, 

Thy  life  no  power  can  renovate ; 

And  yet,  departed  Year !  thy  name 

Is  written  on  the  roll  of  Fame, 

Blent  with  a  thousand  memories 

Of  public  and  of  private  worth  : 
And  will  endure  for  centuries, 

Tho'  thou  art  perished  from  the  earth. 


148  VALEDICTORY    LINES. 

And  thou,  in  thy  brief  reign,  hast  seen 
Far  more  of  human  life,  I  ween, 
Than  e'er  was  writ  in  history, 

From  Moses  to  the  present  day ; 
Or  e'er  was  sung  in  poesy, 

From  Homer's  line  to  Halleck's  lay. 
All  thou  hast  seen  I  may  not  tell, 

It  far  surpasseth  me  to  know ; 
Nor  is  it  mine  to  chronicle 

So  much  of  human  weal  and  woe. 
Thou  saw'st  a  Nation's  jubilee, 
The  earth  was  glad  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  millions  hail'd  with  proud  acclaim, 
Their  venerable  chieftain's  name ! 
And,  ere  the  moon  twice  fill'd  her  horn, 
Thou  sawest  that  same  Nation  rnourn  ; 
Her  fav'rite  chieftain's  toils  were  done — 
My  country  wept  her  HARRISON  ! 


Thou  saw'st  Ambition's  rise  and  fall ; 
Saw'st  mortal  hopes  and  pleasures  pall ; 
Saw'st  thousands  big  with  human  pride, 
Who  now  are  sleeping  side  by  side ; 
Some  in  their  cool  and  quiet  graves, 
And  some  in  ocean's  coral  caves. 
Saw'st  friends  estranged  by  jealousy, 
Who  long  shall  weep  the  broken  tie  ; 


VALEDICTORY    LINES.  149 

Saw'st  Love,  in  passion's  stormy  hour, 

Destroy  his  own  sweet,  rosy  bower ; 

And  saw'st  him,  when  the  storm  was  staid, 

Bewail  the  ruin  he  had  made. 

Saw'st  ruthless  Murder  bare  her  brand, 

And  bathe  in  kindred  blood  her  hand  ! 

Oh  !  deepest,  darkest,  deadliest  crime, 

And  first  upon  the  page  of  Time. 

But  with  the  lapse  of  ages  gone, 

Thou  art,  and  with  thee  many  a  one, 

Whose  cherished  names,  with  thine  entwin'd, 

In  Memory's  temple  are  enshrin'd. 


When  thou  wert  in  thy  summer  glow, 

And  beauteous  Nature  fair  to  see, 
And  gentle  breezes,  breathing  low, 

Bore  health  and  gladness  far  and  free  ; 
When  songsters  poured  their  melodies 
In  tuneful  numbers  from  the  trees ; 
When  fields  of  gently- waving  grain 
Were  seen  on  every  hill  and  plain ; 
And  all  around,  so  fair  and  gay, 
Made  life  seem  one  long  holiday, 
And  all  below,  and  all  above, 
Seem'd  made  for  man,  and  made  to  love ; 
Then,  when  each  scene  that  meets  the  eye 
But  makes  us  doubly  dread  to  die, 


150  VALEDICMORY    LINES. 

And  when  each  sound  that  greets  the  ear 
But  makes  existence  doubly  dear — 
My  brother  bow'd  to  thee,  oh  Death  ! 

In  early  manhood's  golden  glow  : 
I  saw  him  yield  his  latest  breath, 

I  saw  him  in  the  grave  laid  low  ! 
And  never,  while  my  memory 
Gives  earnest  of  fidelity,- 
Can  I  forget  that  solemn  scene, 
Tho'  time  and  space  may  intervene. 
I  loved  thee,  Brothor  !  for  thy  worth  ; 

A  noble  soul  thou  didst  inherit  ; 
Grod's  blessing  on  thy  couch  of  earth, 

(rod's  blessing  on  thy  gen'rous  spirit! 


And  Marianna* — where  is  she  ? 

The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  good — 
With  him  who  died  on  Calvary, 

With  those  who  lived  before  the  Flood : 
In  that  dominion  of  the  Dead, 

Which  echoes  to  no  living  tread. 
Fair  as  the  fairest  rose  of  spring, 

Bright  as  the  brightest  gem  of  even, 
And  lovely  as  the  loveliest  thing 

That  comes  to  earth,  and  goes  to  heaven  ; 

*  Eldest  daughter  of  Saul  Alley,  of  New  York. 


VALEDICTORY    LINES.  151 

She  lived  in  beauty — like  the  moon, 

Thron'd  'mid  her  satellites  on  high, 
And  died  in  beauty — all  too  soon — 

As  summer  roses  live  and  die. 
Oh  !  mine  is  not  a  harp  to  sound 

The  cheerless  notes  of  grief  alone, 
For  it  hath  chords  in  which  abound 

Full  many  a  gay  and  joyous  tone. 
But  feeling  lies  beyond  our  ken, 

And  nature  mocks  at  our  control, 
And  sorrow  heeds  not  reason,  when 

She  fain  would  soothe  the  anguish'd  soul. 
In  every  state  of  being  here, 

From  palace  hall  to  cottage  hearth, 
Whether  life's  leaf  be  green  or  sere, 

In  all  who  are  of  mortal  birth, 
The  fount  of  feeling  will  o'erflow, 
Be  it  with  pleasure  or  with  woe. 

Departed  Year !  with  thee  began 

My  lay — with  thee  my  lay  must  end ; 
Brief  as  thy  transitory  span, 

Sad  as  the  memory  of  a  friend. 
In  every  clime  thy  name  was  known — 

Where  Lusitania  rears  her  vine, 
Where  peasants  dance  beside  the  Rhone, 

Where  princes  revel  by  the  Rhine  ; 
Where  cold  Norwegia's  barren  heath 


152  VALEDICTORY    LINES. 

Looks  down  upon  a  kindred  soil : 
Where  fair  Italia 's  balmy  breath 

Wakes  man's  delight,  and  nature's  smile  ; 
Where  classic  Greece — from  ruin'd  fane, 

And  tott'ring  tower,  and  temple  hoar, 
Looks  out  upon  the  world  again, 

And  claims  her  birth-right  as  of  yore  ; 
Where  olive  groves  and  myrtle  bowers 

Fling  out  their  fragrance  on  the  breeze, 
And  Georgia's  lovely  paramours 

Luxuriate  in  listless  ease  ; 
Where  Harems  teem  with  bright  black  eyes, 

And  throng'd  Seraglios  captives  hold, 
And  virtue  falls  a  sacrifice 

To  Turkish  lust  and  Turkish  gold  ; 
Where  the  dark  Danube  rolls  his  wave 

Thro'  realms  of  superstitious  awe, 
And  man,  of  fellow-man  the  slave, 

Bows  to  the  despot's  iron  law  ; 
Where  Freedom's  banner,  once  unfurl 'd, 

Waved  for  a  season  proudly  free, 
And  show'd  to  an  admiring  world 

What  men  will  dare  for  liberty ! 
Unhappy  land  !  thy  mournful  fate 

Throws  gloom  upon  the  patriot's  brow : 
A  vassal,  wreck 'd,  and  ruin'd  state 

Is  all  that  is  of  Poland  now  ! 
Land  of  the  valiant  and  the  brave  ! 


VALEDICTORY    LINES.  153 

Tho'  razed  from  nations  of  the  earth, 
Thy  name  will  live — for  thine  the  grave 

Of  Kosciusko  ! — thine  his  birth ! 
Where  Switzerland — the  land  of  Tell — 

Still  glories  in  her  scenery, 
And  glaciered  Blanc,  o'er  hill  and  dell, 

Dazzles  afar  the  trav'lers  eye  ; 
Where  haughty  England,  strong  in  pride, 

Old  Ocean's  queen  and  sov'reign  yet, 
Boasts  of  her  realms,  extended  wide, 

In  which  the  sun  doth  never  set ; 
Where  Scotia — home  of  old  Romance — 

Still,  still  deserves  her  ancient  name, 
Altho'  no  more  with  sword  and  lance 

She  urges  Freedom's  rightful  claim  : 
For  arts  and  science  nourish  there, 

And  man  asserts  his  dignity, 
And  city,  town,  and  country  wear 

The  aspect  of  a  nation  free  ; 
And,  more  than  these — the  world  awards 

Her  honors,  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
As  nurse  of  heroes  and  of  bards, 

Of  Bruce  and  Wallace — Burns  and  Scott ! 
Where  Erin — "  Mobe  of  Nations" — 

Still  bows  beneath  Oppression's  weight, 
Yet  shows,  in  all  her  tribulations, 

Her  ancient  spirit,  high  and  great. 
Poor  Erin  ! — tho'  in  slavish  thrall, 


154  VALEDICTORY    LINES. 

'Tis  thine  to  boast  some  noble  names, 
That,  thro'  all  coming  ages,  shall 

Be  Freedom's,  Honor's,  Truth's  and  Fame's ! 
And  thou,  departed  Year  !  wert  known 

Beyond  the  pale  of  Christendom  ; 
Where  rise  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon, 

And  where  Zaharian  Arabs  roam  ; — 
Where  Iran's  rivers  sweetly  flow 

Ambrosial  citron  groves  among, 
And  while  the  stars  of  midnight  glow, 

Is  heard  the  bulbul's  mellow  song  ; — 
Where'er  the  foot  of  man  hath  trod, 

Wherever  shines  the  radiant  sun, 
As  universally  as  Gfod, 

Thy  name,  departed  Year  !  was  known. 
And  thou  hast  seen  in  every  land — 

What  every  land  has  seen  in  thee — 
Boon  Nature's  omnipresent  hand 

Bestowing  blessings  bounteously  ; 
And  man,  creation's  lord,  the  same 

As  in  creation's  morning  hour, 
Unchang'd  in  being  and  in  name, 

In  passion,  pride,  and  power. 
Yet,  with  the  lapse  of  ages  gone, 
Thou  art, — and  with  thee  many  a  one, 
Whose  cherished  names,  with  thine  entwined, 
In  memory's  temple  are  enshrin'd. 
And  oh !  while  my  life's  bark  shall  glide 


VALEDICTORY    LINES.  155 

Adown  Time's  ever-ebbing  tide, 

Departed  Year  !  thy  name  will  dwell 

Upon  my  spirit  like  a  spell, 

And  calling  recollections  up 

Of  buried  worth,  brim  feeling's  cup. 


CONSTANCY. 


"  Constancy  !  thy  name  is  woman  !" 


THE  ship  was  weighing  anchor, 
Her  pennon  stream'd  on  high, 

When  Oscar  left  his  Ellen, 
Compell'd  by  destiny. 

"  Adieu  !  I  now  must  leave  thee, 
The  parting  hour  has  come  : 
Adieu  !  my  lovely  Ellen — 
Adieu  !  my  native  home. 

Tho'  doom'd,  alas  !  to  sever, 
We  yet  shall  meet  again  : 

The  light  of  love  shall  guide  me 
Across  the  rolling  main  ! 

I  leave  thee  poor  and  lonely, 
Nor  can  I  seek  thee  more, 

'Till  fickle  fortune,  smiling, 
Unlock  her  golden  store. 


CONSTANCY.  157 

If,  in  thy  Oscar's  absence, 

Some  tempter  try  thy  heart, 
Sheathed  in  the  mail  of  virtue, 

Thou  canst  defy  his  art. 

I  need  not  tell  thee,  Ellen, 

The  meed  of  constancy  : 
Let  Wisdom  be  thy  Mentor, — 

'Tis  all  I  ask  of  thee." 

When  Oscar  left  his  dwelling, 

Ellen  remain'd  alone  ; 
And  nothing  could  allure  her 

From  its  rude  walls  of  stone. 

Tho'  she  was  young  and  comely, 

And  many  a  gallant  strove 
To  wean  her  from  her  duty, 

She  spurn 'd  their  impious  love. 

The  rolling  years  had  numbered 

Their  annual  courses  three, 
Yet  still  she  clung  to  Oscar, 

And  lov'd  his  memory. 

And  tho'  the  news  had  reach'd  her 

That  Oscar  was  no  more, 
'Twas  all  in  vain — her  virtue 

Was  spotless  as  before  ! 
H* 


158  CONSTANCY. 

One  stormy  ^winter  evening, 
When  all  around  was  still, 

Save  when  the  loud  wind  whistled 
Thro'  forest,  bleak  and  chill ; 

As  she  was  sitting  pensive, 
And  musing  on  the  past, 

And  dewy  tears  were  stealing 
Adown  her  features  fast, 

She  heard  a  gentle  knocking, 
Arose,  and  oped  the  door, 

When,  lo  !  her  faithful  lover 
Had  sought  his  love  once  more  ! 

To  paint  that  happy  meeting, 
Would  but  prolong  my  lay  : 

Tears  were  their  only  greeting, 
Words  they  could  not  essay. 

He  brought  her  wealth  and  honor  : 
They  lived  in  pleasure  long : 

In  peace  their  days  were  ended, 
And  with  them  ends  my  song. 


OH  !  had  we  never,  never  met ! 

Oh !  had  we  never,  never  loved  ! 
Or  could  we,  even  now,  forget 
The  tie  which  bound  us — binds  us  yet — 

We  might  be  happy — far  removed  ! 

But  fate  decrees  that  we  shall  be, 

Like  islands  in  a  stormy  sea, 

Where  space  must  ever  intervene, 

And  billows  darkly  roll  between — 

Forever  near,  and  yet  apart : — 

Be  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  my  breaking  heart  ! 


LOUISE. 


'TWAS  when  the  Bowery's  galleries 
Were  echoing  the  name  of  Booth, 

I  heard  the  lovely,  lost  Louise 
Relate  this  simple  tale  of  truth. 

My  home  was  in  the  Highlands, 

Beside  the  Hudson  fair, 
And  sixteen  sunny  summers 

I  lived  in  pleasure  there. 
Oh  !  many  a  happy  moment 

Of  innocent  delight 
I  pass'd  in  shady  bowers, 

Beneath  the  western  height, 
And  gazed  upon  those  waters, 

So  beautiful  and  bright. 

They're  gone ! — those  happy  moments — 

Ah,  gone  forever  more ! 
And  I  am  left  all  lonely, 

Their  exit  to  deplore : 
Like  summer  flowers  they  wasted, 

When  I  was  free  from  care, 


LOUISE.  161 


But  memory  of  their  sweetness 
Tells  me  of  my  despair  ; 

And  oh  !  my  dear,  dear  parents — 
They  live ! — they  linger  there  ! 


At  midnight's  silent  hour, 

Beneath  my  lattice  high, 
My  lover  tuned  his  numbers, 

And  call'd  on  me  to  fly  : — 
"Oh!  come,"  he  said,  in  accents 

So  softly  sweet  to  me — 
"And  we  will  rove  together 

Upon  the  deep  blue  sea ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  mistress, 

And  I  will  serve  but  thee. 


And  when  our  gallant  frigate 

Booms  thro'  the  briny  foam, 
We'll  love  away  the  hours, 

And  talk  of  friends  and  home. 
I  know  thy  doting  parents 

Will  pardon  thee,  my  dear  ! 
Then  will  we  ask  their  blessing 

And  fix  our  dwelling  here, 
And  revel  in  life's  pleasures 

For  many  a  happy  year." 


162  LOUISE.     . 

'Twas  moonlight  on  the  waters — 

The  evening  air  was  balm — 
The  bird  of  night  was  singing, 

And  the  river's  "breast  was  calm ; 
The  flowers  of  June  were  breathing 

From  garden,  grot,  and  grove  ; 
My  lover's  bark  was  waiting, 

Below  us,  in  the  cove ; 
Oh  !  'twas  the  very  hour 

For  romance,  and  for  love ! 

I  loved — I  listen'd — yielded — 

Together  did  we  flee  ; 
And  from  that  ill-starr'd  moment, 

I  date  my  destiny  ! 
Oh!  look  around  you,  stranger, 

Those  wretched  girls  you  see, 
With  smiles  upon  their  faces, 

And  hearts  where  misery 
Reigns  sole  and  undisputed — 

They're  sisters,  all,  to  me  ! 

Yes, — they  and  I  are  sisters, 

In  guilt,  remorse,  and  shame  ! — 

Gro  listen  to  their  stories, 

You'll  find  them  much  the  same : 

They  once  were  known  to  Yirtue, 
And  dwelt  with  her  awhile, — 


LOUISE.  163 


Made  glad  the  hearts  of  parents, 
And  lived  in  Fortune's  smile  ; 

Yet  fell  by  base  deceivers, — 
The  victims  of  their  guile. 


But  wherefore  do  I  wander  ? — 

Forgive  a  wretched  maid  ! 
The  hollow  world,  it  knows  not 

The  woes  of  the  betray'd  ! 
The  pure  affections,  withered 

By  cold  neglect  and  scorn  ; 
The  feelings  which  are  gendered 

By  being  left  forlorn, 
An  outcast  from  the  circle 

Where  we  were  bred  and  born ! 


It  may  be  right — I  blame  not 

The  loathing  of  the  good  ; 
I've  felt  the  self-same  horror 

With  which  I  now  am  view'd, 
When  I  have  gazed  upon  them, 

The  ruin'd  and  the  lost, 
Ere  in  the  dreadful  vortex 

My  bark  of  life  was  tost, 
And  each  high  hope  of  being 

Was  blasted,  blighted,  cross 'd. 


164  LOUISE. 

"We  fled — we  wed — we  parted — 

Oh !  need  I  tell  you  why  ? 
My  lover  was  a  villain  ! 

A  ruined  girl  was  I ! 
And  naught  that  he  had  promised 

Was  ever  realized, 
And  all  that  he  had  uttered 

"Was  treachery,  devised 
To  triumph  o'er  the  ruins 

Of  Virtue,  sacrificed  ! 

"What  could  I  do  ? — abandon'd 

By  him  I  once  had  loved, 
My  very  heart  seem'd  breaking, 

As  thro'  the  world  I  roved ! 
Avoided,  loathed,  forsaken, 

By  ev'ry  former  friend, 
No  ray  illum'd  the  future : 

The  star  of  hope  could  send 
No  light  upon  my  pathway — 

My  peace  was  at  an  end. 

You  know  those  dens  of  darkness, 
Where  harlots  hide  their  shame, 

And  midnight  riot  revels 
In  what  I  blush  to  name ! 

/  sought  one  ! — Need  I  further 
Relate  my  rstory  now  ? 


LOUISE.  165 

'Tis  stamp'd  upon  my  features, 

'Tis  written  on  my  brow, 
In  characters  too  open 

For  me  to  disavow ! 

Hark  !  now  the  play  is  ended  ! 

The  name  of  Booth  again 
Peals  thro'  these  lofty  arches, 

The  Drama's  classic  fane. 
Farewell !     I'll  seek  my  partner 

Amid  the  thoughtless  throng, 
And  to  my  lonely  lodging 

I'll  hie  with  him  along, 
And  drown  my  shame  and  sorrow, 

In  wassail,  wine,  and  song  ! 

Amid  the  throng  she  vanish'd, 

I  saw  her  not  again  : 
Her  language,  looks,  and  story 

Touch'd  me  with  sorrow  then. 
She  had  seen  brighter  hours, 

Had  been  admir'd  and  loved, 
Had  been  the  hope  of  parents, 

In  life's  high  circles  moved, 
But  left  the  path  of  virtue, 

And  sin  and  sorrow  prov'd. 


"  When  mnsing  on  companions  gone, 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone  " — SCOTT. 


How  slowly  glides  each  varied  hour, 
When  I  am  absent  from  my  love ! 

Nor  scene  nor  pleasure  has  the  power 
My  melancholy  heart  to  move. 

As  the  caged  eagle  pines  to  soar 
Thro'  the  free  realms  of  air  again, 

I  long  the  hour  when  I  once  more 
My  Mary  to  my  breast  shall  strain. 

And,  tho'  surrounded  by  my  friends, 
And  hail'd  by  many  a  joyous  tone, 

I  feel  like  one  who  feebly  wends 
Some  solitary  way  alone. 

No  star  of  pleasure  shines  on  me, 
Save  one  whose  rays  are  shed  afar, 

Forever  shining  beauteously — 

And  thou,  my  dearest,  art  that  star ! 


TO  *  *  *  *  .  167 

Oh,  Mary  !  what  were  wealth  or  fame, 
If  they  were  all  unblest  by  thee  ? 

A  bauble  light !  an  empty  name  ! 
Unvalued  and  unsought  by  me. 

I'd  rather  that  the  meanest  cot 

Should  be  my  home,  if  blest  with  thee, 

Than  share,  without,  a  monarch's  lot, 
"With  all  its  power  and  pageantry  ! 

Yes,  dearest !  thou  art  so  entwin'd 
With  every  feeling  of  my  heart, 

That  thou  art  ever  in  my  mind, 

And  with  me — wheresoe'er  thou  art. 


A     SKETCH. 

'TWAS  summer  night — and  such  a  night 

Might  tempt  an  angel  from  high  heaven  ! 
The  air  was  bathed  in  mellow  light, 

And  radiance  to  the  earth  was  given, 
Such  as  the  moon  and  stars  alone 
Can  give — a  radiance  all  their  own. 
A  fragrance  wandered  from  the  trees, 
A  dewy  freshness  in  the  breeze  ; 
And  on  the  river's  shining  breast, 

The  stars  were  dancing,  fair  and  free  ; 
And  o'er  the  mountain's  silver'd  crest, 

The  moon  look'd  down  approvingly ; 
And  all  the  landscape,  far  and  near, 
In  that  delightful  atmosphere, 
Seem'd  dream-like,  heaven-like,  and  serene, 
Like  fairy  or  enchanted  scene. 
A  strain  of  music  met  the  ear, 
So  ravishingly  rich  and  clear, 
An  angel's  voice  could  scarce  have  given 
A  sweeter  note  to  gladden  heaven  ! 
Like  balm  upon  our  souls  it  fell ; 
It  charm'd  our  senses  like  a  spell ; 
And  as  it  softly,  slowly  died 
In  distance,  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
Not  one  who  heard  that  mellow  strain, 
But  wish'd  it  might  awake  again  ! 


DEATH. 


DREAD  Monarch  of  the  grave  !  thou  art 
The  doom  of  all  created  things  : 

Before  thee  pales  the  stoutest  heart, 

From  earth's  poor  peasants  to  her  kings. 

In  vain  may  mild  Religion  breathe 
Her  soothing  lessons  to  the  soul, 

And  round  the  trembling  spirit  wreathe 
A  garland  for  its  final  goal. 

And  philosophic  Reason,  too, 

Must  ever  spend  in  vain  her  breath  ; 

There  is  a  chord,  beyond  her  view, 

Which  trembles  at  thy  touch,  oh  Death  ! 

To  cease  to  live — to  be  again 

Resolved  to  dust  and  nothingness, 

I-s  Nature's  law — and  must  remain 
The  order  of  a  world  like  this. 

And  yet  we  view  that  law  with  fear, 
Because  it  severs  earthly  ties : 

And  strong  around  our  souls  they  are, 
Stronger  than  faith  in  paradise  ! 

15* 


170  DEATH. 

Oh  Death  !  howe'er  we  dread  thy  blow- 
And  all  do  dread  it,  young  and  old — 

Thou  art  man's  friend  and  not  his  foe, 
And  thy  commission  is  twofold  : — 

It  sets  us  from  our  sufferings  free, 
It  points  us  to  a  place  of  rest, 

Where  we  may  sleep  most  peacefully 
Within  our  common  mother's  breast. 


CHARITY. 


FREE  as  the  dew  of  heaven 
Descends  on  plant  and  tree, 

And  as  the  stars  of  even 
Diffuse  their  brilliancy, 

To  all  mankind  be  given 
The  meed  of  charity. 

We  know  not  one  another : 

The  passions,  high  and  strong, 

Which  sway  thy  erring  brother, 
May  not  to  thee  belong : 

Perhaps  he  could  not  smother 
The  act  thou  deemest  wrong ! 

Whate'er  the  act — extend  it 

The  meed  of  charity ; 
We  never  can  amend  it,  . 

Whatever  it  may  be ; 
And  Nature's  laws  defend  it, 

Before  his  (rod  and  thee ! 


172  CHARITY. 

Then,  as  the  lights  of  even 
On  all  shine  equally, 

To  all  mankind  be  given 
The  meed  of  charity : 

Oh !  'tis  the  boon  of  heaven, 
As  beautiful  as  free  ! 


WASHING-TON. 

FOREMOST  on  thy  country's  pages, 
Foremost  in  thy  country's  fight, 

And,  among  her  civil  sages, 

Foremost  in  the  cause  of  Right — 

It  was  thine  to  live  and  die 

An  honor  to  humanity ! 

Calm,  amid  discordant  factions — 

Calm,  upon  the  battle-field — 
All  thy  works,  and  words,  and  actions, 

Thy  true  greatness  but  revealed  ! 
And  placed  thee,  where  thou  standest  still, 
Upon  Fame's  topmost  pinnacle ! 

Like  a  planet  brightly  beaming, 

Thou  art  seen  by  every  eye ; 
And  the  glory  from  thee  streaming, 

Lights  the  world's  dark  destiny ! 
It  has  wakened  many  a  sage, 
It  has  brighten'd  many  a  page. 

Tyrants  see  it,  and  with  terror — 
Patriots  hail  it  with  delight — 
And  the  reign  of  Wrong  and  Error 


174  WASHINGTON. 

Yieldeth  to  the  reign  of  Right : — 
Guided  by  the  light  from  thee, 
Nations  seek  Democracy ! 

And  they  find  it — truth  is  breaking 
O'er  the  world,  both  far  and  fast ; 

Men,  a  mighty  effort  making, 
Prove  that  they  are  men,  at  last ! 

And  that  all  are,  equally, 

Heirs  of  God  and  Liberty. 

Lo !  the  thrones  of  Europe  totter ! 

Gallia's*  freemen  are  awake ! 
And  the  mighty  truths  they  utter, 

Empires,  to  their  centres,  shake  ! 
Inspiration,  caught  from  thee, 
Nerves  the  nations  to  be  free. 

While  the  stars  revolve  in  heaven, 
While  the  car  of  time  shall  run, 

Thou  shalt  live  in  glory,  even 
As  thy  glory  has  begun — 

First  of  heroes  and  of  sages, 

Throughout  all  revolving  ages ! 

*  Written  so«n  after  the  abdication  of  Louis  Philippe. 


"OUR  COUNTRY'S  QUARREL." 


( Written  in  the  early  stage  of  the  Mexican  war — soon  after  the 
surrender  of  Monterey.) 


'  Stand  thon  by  thy  country's  quarrel, 

Be  that  quarrel  what  it  may  ; 
He  shall  wear  the  greenest  laurel 
Who  shall  greatest  zeal  display." — T.  G.  SPEAR. 


WHAT  boots  the  "greenest  laurel"  wreath, 
If  wet  with  tears  and  stain'd  with  blood  ? 
'Tis  fouler  than  the  Siroc's  breath! 

And  loathed  by  all  the  just  and  good. 
The  cypress  were  a  fitter  wreath 
For  those  who  do  the  work  of  Death, 
Unless  inspired  by  Freedom's  breath. 

Shame  to  the  Bard  whose  lyre  is  strung 
To  sound  Dishonor's  praise  afar ! 

Tho'  prostituted  Press  and  tongue 

Commend  Oppression's  coward  war — 


176  OUR  COUNTRY'S  QUARREL. 

The  bard — the  bard  should  ever  be 
The  champion  of  humanity, 
From  prejudice  and  error  free. 

There's  blood  on  Palo  Alto's  plains  ! 

And  in  Tampico's  sunny  sands ! 
That  blood  once  flow'd  in  Christian  veins, 

That  blood  was  shed  by  Christian  hands ! 
Oh!  wherefore  was  it  shed?  wherefore 
Do  we  invade  a  foreign  shore  ? 
Or  drench  a  foreign  soil  with  gore  ? 


Look  up  along  the  Rio  Grande 
What  desolation  meets  thine  eye ! 

What  monuments  of  ruin  stand 
Amid  its  lovely  scenery ! 

The  Fiend  of  War  has  revelled  there ! 

And  hamlet,  cot,  and  country  bear 

Marks  of  his  presence  everywhere. 

Gaze  on  Monterey's  ruined  walls, 

On  fallen  Matamoras  gaze — 
The  very  sight  thy  soul  appals ! 

And  yet  thou  joinest  in  the  praise 
Of  those  who  laid  those  cities  low, 
Who  hurl'd  the  death-shot — struck  the  blow- 
And  made  the  blood  in  torrents  flow ! 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  QUARREL.  177 

Hark !  every  bland  and  balmy  breeze, 

That  comes  from  far-off  Mexico, 
Oppress'd  with  human  miseries, 

And  with  the  widow's  wail  of  woe — 
Brings  something  that  we  should  not  hear, 
Brings  something  that  should  pain  our  ear, 
And  wring  from  every  eye  a  tear ! 

Those  bloody  battles  fought  and  won — 

What  are  they  worth?  what  have  they  cost? 

What  have  they  for  our  country  done  ? 
What  have  they  for  our  country  lost? — 

They've  won  for  her  a  conqueror's  name, 

Leagued  with  dishonor  and  with  shame! 

And  lost  her  early,  honest  fame ! 

Millions  of  treasure,  too,  they've  lost — 

But  oh !  the  loss  of  human  life 
Is  ever  greatest— ever  most, 

In  War's  unblest,  unholy  strife ! 
What  is  the  shout  of  victory, 
But  War's  appalling  minstrelsy? 
The  death-dirge  of  humanity ! 

Why  ride  our  ships  on  foreign  seas  ? 

Why  seek  our  troops  a  foreign  foe  ? 
Why  streams  our  banner  on  the  breeze 

Of  fair  and  sunny  Mexico  ? 

16 


178  OUR  COUNTRY'S  QUARREL. 

Why  comes  the  widow's  wail  afar, 
Blent  with  the  awful  notes  of  War  ? 
Canst  answer  why  these  sad  things  are  ? 

Is  it  because  insulted  Right 

Seeks  to  enforce  an  honest  claim  ? 

No  ! — 'tis  because  oppressive  Might 
Seeks  to  extend  his  wide  domain ! 

Regardless  of  a  Nation's  laws, 

With  scarce  the  shadow  of  a  cause ! 

Grod !  who  can  give  such  deeds  applause  ? 

For  this,  are  countless  orphans  made, — 
For  this,  are  cities  hurl'd  to  dust — 

And  War,  that  most  unholy  trade, 

Is  flattered,  honored,  and  call'd  "just!" 

Oh  Heaven  !  that  such  things  e'er  should  be, 

In  this  the  nineteenth  century 

Of  peaceful  Chistianity. 

Where  are  the  hearts  that  felt  for  Greece, 

And  wept  o'er  Poland's  funeral  day  ? 
Where  are  the  partisans  of  Peace  ? 

Of  Right?  of  Justice  ?    Where  are  they  ? 
Mute  is  their  voice  ! — or  only  heard 
In  warnings,  like  the  prophet's  word, 
Wlio  wields  the  sword  shall  feel  the  sword! 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  QUARREL. 

Why  is  the  statesman's  voice  unheard  ? 

Why  sleeps  the  Grod-taught  Poet's  pen  ? 
Shall  Nations'  rights  be  sepulchred, 

And  all  respond  amen  !  amen  ! 
Ye  civil  Fathers  !  can  it  be  ? 
Have  you  no  souls  of  sympath  y 
For  justice  and  humanity? 

Awaken  from  your  lethargy  ! 

The  influence  that  you  possess 
Can  rule  a  nation's  destiny, 

Can  curse  her  fortunes,  or  can  bless. 
Will  ye  not  use  it  while  ye  may  ? 
Will  ye  not  work,  while  yet  'tis  day, 
For  Peace  and  for  America  ? 

Avert  the  military  flood, 

Which  threatens  to  o'erwhelm  our  land  ; 
Some  upstart  hero,  drunk  with  blood, 

Will  soon  aspire  to  its  command ! 
'Twas  ever  thus — the  ghost  of  Rome, 
From  crumbling  fane  and  ruin'd  dome, 
Warns  of  the  evil  that  may  come  ! 
December,  1846. 


179 


BALLAD. 

ON  that  green  and  sunny  mountain, 
Where  the  wilding  roses  grow, 

Near  a  lone  and  limpid  fountain, 
Lived  a  maiden — long  ago. 

Flower-wreaths,  on  that  mountain's  bosom, 

Never  fairer  were  than  she  ! 
And  the  lily's  snowy  blossom 

But  defines  her  purity. 

She  was  once  a  village  maiden, 
She  had  reign'd  a  village  belle, 

Ere  her  mind,  with  grief  o'erladen, 
"Wandered  from  its  citadel. 

Of  the  many  suitors  round  her, 

One  alone  beguiled  her  heart : 
In  that  heaven  where  he  found  her, 

Could  he  play  a  demon's  part  ? 

Could  he! — read  the  mournful  story, 

Rudely  graven  on  that  stone, 
Where  the  weeping- willow,  hoary, 

Stands  beside  her  grave,  alone. 


BALLAD.  181 

When  that  willow  there  was  planted — 
When  that  maid  was  lowly  laid — 

Dolefully  a  dirge  was  chanted, 
Solemnly  a  prayer  was  said. 

Fair,  white  hands  strew'd  roses  o'er  her, 
Low,  soft  voices  sweetly  sung  ;x 

Deeply  did  they  all  deplore  her — 
They — the  lovely  and  the  young. 

Brief  the  words  that  there  are  written, 

But  they  are  enough  to  tell 
That  her  heart  was  rudely  smitten, 

By  the  one  it  loved  too  well ! 

Vainly  would  ye  seek  her  dwelling, 
Time  hath  razed  it — long  ago — 

But  that  fountain  still  is  welling, 
Where  the  wilding  roses  grow. 


16* 


BALLAD. 


WHEN  the  Hudson's  waves  are  gleaming 
In  the  moonlight's  mellow  ray, 

Lovely  Ellen  lonely  wanders, 
From  her  dwelling  far  away. 

When  the  rose  of  youth  was  blooming 
On  her  soft  and  snowy  cheek, 

And  the  world  was  bright  before  her, 
Edwin  did  her  dwelling  seek. 

Earnestly  he  woo'd  and  won  her — 
She  became  his  happy  bride — 

And  where  now  she  wanders  lonely, 
Oft  they  wandered  side  by  side. 

They  were  loving,  loved  and  lovely ; 

Life  to  them  was  full  of  bliss — 
Three  glad,  sunny  summers  brought  them 

Pleasures,  health,  and  happiness. 

But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  them ! 

Duty  beckon 'd  him  afar  : 
Oh !  that  man  should  e'er  be  summon'd 

By  the  tragic  voice  of  War  ! 


BALLAD. 

On  the  field  of.Cerro  (rordo, 

Edwin  slumbers  with  the  slain  ! 

When  the  awful  news  was  brought  her, 
Reason  fled  her  fevered  brain. 

Now,  a  wretched  maniac,  roving 
Thro'  the  scenes  of  former  bliss, 

The  once  gay  and  lovely  Ellen 
Dreams  no  more  of  happiness. 


183 


POVERTY  vs.    RICHES. 


I  MARVEL  not  that  some  are  poor, 

And  beg  their  bread  from  door  to  door ; 

That  abject  want  and  poverty 

Seem  woven  with  their  destiny ; 

Imprudence  and  improvidence 

Have  made  them  their  inheritance  ; 

Not  Nature — she  bestows  on  all 

Who  ask  by  "  labor's  earnest  call." 

Too  proud  to  earn,  by  manly  toil, 

Their  food  and  raiment  from  the  soil ; 

Too  indolent  to  work  at  aught 

By  which  a  living  may  be  wrought, 

By  which  thy  boon,  Prosperity ! 

Is  made,  like  heaven's  own  sunlight,  free — 

They  live  in  woe,  in  want,  and  shame, 

Andthee,  impartial  Nature!  blame: — 

Grod  ! — what  excuse  and  what  pretence 

Are  fram'd  by  envious  Indolence  ! 

I  marvel  not  that  some  can  ride 
Along  life's  road  in  pomp  and  pride, 
Can  live  in  luxury  and  ease, 
And  do  and  have  whate'er  they  please. 


POVERTY    VS.    RICHES.  185 

They,  or  their  fathers,  well  have  wrought — 

By  toil  is  independence  bought — 

By  toil  their  fortunes  have  been  made, 

In  useful  arts  or  honest  trade  : 

The  means  which  nature's  laws  afford, 

They  used,  and  theirs  the  sure  reward. 

By  them  the  loom  and  plow  were  sped, 

With  earnest  zeal  and  industry  ; 
By  them,  the  wings  of  commerce  spread 

To  every  wind — o'er  every  sea  ; 
And  money  flow'd  at  their  command, 
Like  water  'neath  the  prophet's  wand  ! 
When  means  like  these,  and  thousands  more, 

Are  pointing  to  prosperity, 
The  sluggard,  begging  at  thy  door, 

Is  scarce  a  child  of  charity. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  GRINDING  SHOE.* 

FEW  are  they  that  ever  listen 

To  that  music,  strange  and  sweet,   . 

Which  pursues  them  as  they  wander 
Thro'  the  city's  peopled  street. 

The  successful  hero  hears  it, 

Statesman,  politician,  too, 
And  the  truly  gifted  poet — 

But,  of  many,  these  are  few  ! 

Useful  artists,  busy  tradesmen, 
Plodding  farmers,  toiling  on, 

Never  hear  that  witching  music, 
Never  catch  its  thrilling  tone. 

They  may  swell  its  grateful  anthem, — 

But  they  do  it  unaware, 
As  the  winds  that  lightly  wander 

Make  seolian  music  fare. 


*  "  The  grinding  of  the  shoe  upon  the  pavement  as  the  passer-by 
turns  to  look  after." — N.  PARKER  WILLIS. 


THE    MUSIC    OF    THE    GRINDING    SHOE.  187 

Ye  who  madly  strive  to  hear  it, 

"Wasting  strength,  and  time,  and  toil — 

Is  it  worth  the  pains  you're  taking  ? 
Will  it  pay  for  "  midnight  oil  ?" 

Ask  of  those  whose  course  hath  led  them 
Where  its  cadence  frequent  flows, 

Whether  it  rewards  their  labor — 
Young  aspirants  !  ask  of  those. 


TO    PARENTS. 

OH  Parents  !  pause,  ere  ye  essay 
To  bar  young  Love's  resistless  way  ; 
Prompted  by  vain  and  foolish  pride, 
The  effort  often  has  been  tried  ; 
As  often  has  it  fail'd,  or  been 
The  cause  of  sorrow,  grief,  or  sin. 
Ye  never  can  command  the  mind, 

Ye  never  can  compel  the  heart ; 
As  well  attempt  to  stay  the  wind, 

Or  bid  the  raging  storm  depart ! 
'Tis  yours  to  counsel  and  advise, 

To  warn  from  the  deceiver's  path, 
To  point  where  hidden  danger  lies, 

But  all  in  love,  and  naught  in  wrath  ! 
"With  these,  a  parent's  duties  end, 
And  these  they  never  should  transcend  ; 
For,  if  these  fail  love's  course  to  sway, 
You  need  not  other  means  essay : 
Despite  each  rash  and  wrong  endeavor, 
Love  will  assert  his  right  forever  ! 
And  it  is  just — ordain'd  of  Heaven, 
The  right  of  choice  to  all  is  given  ; 


TO    PARENTS. 


189 


And  they  who  would  coerce  the  heart, 
But  play  the  tyrant's  hateful  part ; 
And  they  who  yield  to  such  control, 
Have  neither  love,  nor  heart,  nor  soul ! 


SONG-. 


(FROM    "  BEVERLEY  "— AN   UNPUBLISHED   POEM.) 


IF  all  too  ardent  be  my  song, 

If  all  too  earnest  be  its  tone, 
Forgive — forgive  the  seeming  wrong, 

Or  charge  it  to  my  love  alone. 

Oh  !  but  to  make  thee  mine,  Louise  ! 

Forever  mine,  is  all  my  aim  ; 
"Without  thee,  what  were  Fortune's  prize  ? 

Without  thee,  what  the  meed  of  Fame  ? 

An  empty  bauble  ! — all  unsought — 
An  empty  treasure  ! — nothing  worth  ! 

Without  thee,  all  to  me  is  naught, 

But  with  thee,  heaven  descends  to  earth  / 

Oh  !  wheresoe'er  my  footsteps  roam, 
Thine  image  ever  dwells  with  me  ; 

Amid  the  peaceful  scenes  of  home, 
Where  Bronx  meanders  silently  ; 


SONG.  191 

Or  in  the  camp's  monotony, 

Or  on  the  stirring  battle-field — 
Thine  image  ever  dwells  with  me. 

Thy  presence  ever  is  reveaPd  ! 

As  the  bright  waves  of  distant  Loire 

Are  mirrored  in  thy  memory, 
And  childhood  scenes,  along  its  shore, 

Rise  thro'  the  mist  of  years  to  thee  ; 

As  comes  remembrance  of  that  river, 
Laden  with  pleasures,  unto  thee, 

So  comes — and  so  will  come  forever, 
The  hour  that  gave  thy  love  to  me  ! 


TO    SLAVERY. 


BLOT  upon  our  country's  pages  ! 

Mocker  of  her  liberty  ! 
Who,  that  lives  in  after  ages, 

Will  believe  that  it  could  be 
That  Earth's  most  enlightened  nation 
Gave  thee  honor,  power  and  station  ? 

That  a  Christian  people,  ever 
Boasting  Freedom's  only  chart, 

Should,  by  every  foul  endeavor, 
Aid  thee,  demon  as  thou  art! 

And  perpetuate  thee  long, 

With  thy  deep  and  damning  wrong  ? 

Damning  wrong — that  ever  rises, 
With  its  victims'  groans,  to  God ! 

Yet  our  law  its  cry  despises, 
And  upholds  the  tyrant's  rod — 

Hurls  the  captive  to  the  earth — 

Crushes  freedom  at  its  birth — 


TO    SLAVERY.  193 

( 

But  there  is  a  law,  that  teaches 
Truth,  and  right,  and  liberty; 

Strong  that  law,  and  far  it  reaches, 
Over  land  and  over  sea — 

'Tis  implanted  in  each  mind 

Of  the  whole  of  human  kind. 


Thrones,  before  that  law,  now  totter — 
Mitres,  to  the  earth  are  hurled ; 

And  the  truth  its  champions  utter, 
Stirs  the  pulses  of  the  world  ! 

They  proclaim  Equality — 

Hear  and  tremble,  Slavery! 

Yes }  dark  monster  I  thou  art  fated — 
Thy  death-hour  is  drawing  nigh, 

Tho'  thy  maw  be  yet  unsated 
With  thy  victims'  agony  ! — 

Right  is  hourly  growing  stronger — 

Thou  canst  live  but  little  longer  ! 

Over  our  fair  land  is  breaking 
Truth's  effulgence,  far  and  fast ; 

Men,  from  error's  trance  awaking, 
Feel  that  they  have  hearts,  at  last ! 

And  confess,  as  all  men  should, 

Universal  brotherhood. 

17* 


194  TO    SLAVERY. 

Rise,  Columbia  !  rise  in  glory, 

Wipe  the  foul  stain  from  thy  brow  ; 

And  in  future  song  and  story, 

Thou  shalt  live,  as  thou  shouldst  now, 

Earth's  model-nation,  great  and  free, 

And  pioneer  of  Liberty  ! 

Break  thy  children's  galling  fetters — 
Lo  !  their  blood  pollutes  thy  plains  ! 

Tyrants,  and  their  base  abettors, 
"Wring  it  daily  from  their  veins  ! 

Yet  employ  no  means  coercive, 

Such,  of  good,  are  aye  subversive. 

Truth,  alone,  should  be  thy  agent, 

'Tis  a  power  omnipotent ; 
Truth,  without  parade  or  pageant, 

Bonds,  and  bars,  and  walls  hath  rent  :• 
"Tis  the  weapon  God  employs, — 
Use  it,  and  thou  shalt  rejoice. 


RURAL     PICTURE. 

SUNSET  glories  slowly  fading 

From  the  mountain's  lofty  crest ; 

Twilight  shadows  softly  shading 
The  low  valley's  quiet  breast. 

Nestling  in  their  leafy  bowers, 
Birds  have  sung  their  latest  lay ; 

And  the  bees  have  left  the  flowers, 
Where  they  revel'd  all  the  day. 

Balmy  is  the  breath  of  even, 
One  by  one  the  stars  appear, 

And,  around  the  vault  of  heaven, 
Range  in  beauty,  bright  and  clear. 

Leafy  is  the  mountain's  bosom, 
Verdant  is  the  quiet  vale  ; 

And  the  fragrant  clover  blossom 
Sweetly  scents  the  summer  gale. 

Many  an  insect  voice  is  ringing, 
In  the  twilight  atmosphere  ; 

And  the  whip-poor-will  is  singing 
Her  sad  note,  so  wild  and  clear. 


196  RURAL    PICTURE. 

Lovely  is  the  scene,  and  lonely, 
Soft,  sequestered,  and  serene  ; 

Here  and  there  a  mansion,  only, 
Thro'  its  leafy  veil  is  seen. 

Had  ye  sought  an  earthly  heaven, 
Ye  had  surely  chosen  this  : — 

Every  charm  to  it  was  given, 
Every  air  of  happiness. 


WOMAN'S     INFLUENCE. 


AH  !  greatly  do  they  err,  who  deem 

'that  woman's  mind  is  fed  with  praise  ! 
Her  life  is  not  an  idle  dream, 

Her  days  are  not  inactive  days : 
Bright,  cheering  intellectual  rays 

Have  emanated  from  her  soul ; 
And  man — proud  man — thro'  all  his  ways, 

Is  vassal  to  her  soft  control ! 

A  mildly-moving  influence  lives 

Wherever  woman's  lot  is  cast — 
A  tone  to  human  life  she  gives, 

Its  first,  its  loveliest,  and  its  last : 
Like  zephyrs  as  they  wander  past, 

Her  spirit  breathes  a  freshness  round ; 
And  firm,  amid  life's  sternest  blast, 

Her  heart  and  faith  are  ever  found. 

'Tis  hers  to  mould  the  infant  mind, 
'Tis  hers  to  sway  the  youthful  breast, 

And  by  her  influence  are  inclin'd 

Man's  acts — his  noblest  and  his  best — 


198  WOMAN'S  INFLUENCE. 

And  e'en  his  worst!  be  it  confess'd — 
The  sin,  the  sorrow,  and  remorse, 

Which  rack  man's  bosom  with  unrest, 
In  woman,  sometimes,  have  their  source. 

Then  how  important  that  her  mind 

Be  truth-directed,  pure  and  high ; 
The  polar-star  of  human  kind 

Should  blaze  amid  a  cloudless  sky ! 
The  world's  eternal  destiny 

To  woman's  hands  must  e'er  be  given ; 
'Tis  hers  to  sink  in  misery, 

Or  raise  to  happiness  and  heaven  ! 


TO  MY  SISTER, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  DAUGHTER. 

THERE  is  a  grief  too  deep  for  words, 
Which  all  may  feel,  but  none  express ; 

It  thrills  the  bosom's  inmost  chords 
With  agonizing  bitterness. 

Such  is  the  grief  a  mother  knows, 

When  Death  has  sealed  a  daughter's  brow- 

And  such  the  grief  that  round  thee  throws 
Its  melancholy  shadow  now. 

Oh  !  vain  thy  aid,  Philosophy ! 

Feeling's  strong  torrent  will  burst  forth  :- 
And  it  is  right — the  tearful  eye 

Is  ever  due  departed  worth. 

The  stoic  soul  that  cannot  weep, 
Is  a  most  cold,  insensate  thing: 

Tears  are  a  language  strong  and  deep, — 
An  earnest  heart's  best  offering. 


200  TO    MY    SISTER. 

Oh !  when  the  young  and  beautiful 
Are  summon'd  from  this  world  away, 

Those  senses  must  indeed  be  dull 
That  cannot  sorrow's  tribute  pay ! 

And  she  was  young  and  beautiful, — 
That  faded  flower — that  broken  gem — 

And  every  virtue  we  may  cull, 

To  wreathe  her  mem'ry's  diadem  : 

For  all  were  hers — as  good  as  fair, 
She  left  no  blot  upon  her  name ; — 

Obedience  was  her  constant  care, 
And  merit's  meed  her  highest  aim. 

Then  weep,  my  sister — Jesus  wept, 
And  he  was  not  asham'd  to  weep, 

Where  his  beloved  disciple  slept 

Death's  awful  slumber — lone  and  deep. 

But  sorrow  should  not  always  last — 

Sunshine  succeeds  the  deepest  gloom: — 

Thy  daughter — all  her  suff'ring  past — 
Rests  peacefully  within  the  tomb. 

Dec.  17, 1848. 


TO   MRS.    E  *  *  *  *  * 


"  Where  is  the  motive  ?  shall  I  ask  a  name, 
And  bow  a  cringing  suppliant  to  Fame?" — MRS.  E. 


ONE  who  can  wield  with  so  much  power, 

And  grace,  and  ease,  the  poet-pen, 
Should  not  withhold  the  precious  dower, 

Should  freely  give,  and  give  again, 
Until  the  world  shall  realize, 

And  realizing,  shall  confess 
How  truly  rich  and  rare  the  prize, 

It  has  the  fortune  to  possess. 


What  tho'  the  meed  of  merit  ne'er 

Can  save  from  ill,  or  shield  from  death ; 
What  tho'  as  empty  as  the  air 

Be  Fame's  award  and  trumpet-breath ; 
What  tho'  Ambition's  siren  voice 

Hath  never  whispered  in  thine  ear  ; 
What  tho'  Seclusion  be  thy  choice, 

And  calm  Retirement  be  thy  sphere  :— 

18 


202  TO    MRS.    E  *****  . 

Should  these  restrain  the  march  of  Mind? 

Should  these  deter  from  doing  good  ? 
No! — let  the  soul  be  unconfined, 

And  active, — e'en  in  solitude ! — 
This  is  the  "motive" — this  should  be 

The  inspiration  of  the  bard — 
The  aim  and  end  of  poesy, 

Its  highest  object — chief  reward — 


To  elevate  the  human  race, 

Reform  the  errors  of  mankind, 
And  shed  abroad,  with  constant  grace, 

The  radiating  light  of  Mind. 
This  is  the  bard's  high  mission  here, 

Which  none  can  do  so  well  as  he, 
For,  in  each  human  grade  and  sphere. 

The  soul  responds  to  poesy. 


It  is  the  music  of  the  heart, 

Its  diapason — strong  and  deep ; 
At  its  behest  the  passions  start, 

And  into  life  and  action  leap ! 
It  wakes  the  pulses  of  the  soul — 

It  moulds  the  manners  of  the  age  : 
The  patriot  owns  its  soft  control, 

The  statesman,  scholar,  and  the  sage. 


TO    MRS.    E  *****  .  203 

Then  let  thy  numbers  freely  flow ; 

Throw  to  the  world  each  stirring  strain, 
Until  it  revel  in  the  glow 

Of  pure  poetic  fire  again  ! 
Thou  need'st  not  meet  the  public  gaze, 

Nor  thy  beloved  seclusion  leave  ; 
But  weave  in  solitude  thy  lays, 

Then  give  them  forth — and  freely  give. 


Like  bread  upon  the  waters  cast, 

And  gathered  after  many  days, 
Mankind  will  see  their  worth  at  last, 

And  honestly  award  their  praise  ; 
With  those  whose  language  ever  breathed 

Of  souls  exalted  and  refin'd — 
With  sister-spirits,  laurel- wreathed. 

Thy  memory  will  be  enshrin'd. 


And  this  is  something — yet  'tis  naught, 

Compar'd  with  that  high  purpose  given, 
Which  lifts  the  poet's  raptur'd  thought 

Up  to  its  kindred  home  and  heaven ! 
The  wish  to  do  for  others'  weal, 

To  work  for  man,  and  not  for  fame — 
This  is  the  motive  all  do  feel, 

Whose  worth  deserves  the  Poet's  name. 


204 


TO    MRS. 


Child  of  the  Muse  !  —  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  breathe  the  pure  Parnassian  lays, 
Unmingled  with  the  grosser  leaven, 

So  rife  in  these  degenerate  days  : 
Child  of  the  Muse  !  —  revive  again 

The  spirit  of  that  classic  age, 
When  Mind  was  seen  in  every  strain 

That  glow'd  upon  the  Poet's  page, 


Oh !  there  are  errors  to  correct, 

And  there  are  evils  to  abate, 
And  there  is  many  a  gross  defect 

In  ethics,  and  in  church  and  state : 
Are  these  unworthy  of  the  muse  ? 

Are  these  beneath  the  minstrel's  mind  ? 
Ah,  no !  it  never  should  refuse 

Aught  that  can  benefit  mankind. 


Its  highest  office  is  to  do 

What  shall  result  in  human  weal ; 
Its  greatest  pleasure,  to  imbue 

The  soul  with  high  and  holy  zeal. 
Then  strike  the  sounding  lyre  again, 

Oh  gifted  sister  of  the  Nine  ! 
Give  to  the  world  each  mellow  strain, 

And  merit's  best  reward  be  thine ! 


TO    MRS.    E  *****. 


"  Enough  of  joy  begirts  the  sphere 

Where  proud  ambition  may  not  come  ; 
Enough  of  duty  centres  here, 

Within  my  little  empire,  home," — MRS.  !•'.. 


A  SENTIMENT  unworthy  thee  ; 

A  maxim  of  that  darker  age, 
Ere  universal  charity 

Was  taught  by  Gralilean  sage  : 
It  mars  the  beauty  of  thy  page — 

It  breathes  too  much  of  selfishness — 
It  tells  that  thoughts  thy  soul  engage, 

Unworthy  of  a  Poetess  ! 

But  no  \—>it  never  could  be  thine  ! 

That  sentiment  belies  thy  soul ! 
Cloth'd  with  a  mission  half  divine, 

Thy  poet-spirit  spurns  control ! 
In  every  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 

It  sees  a  common  brotherhood  ; 
And  far  as  ocean  billows  roll, 

It  fain  would  journey — doing  good, 

18* 


206  TO    MRS.    E   *****. 

Oh  !  by  that  kindred  sympathy, 

Which  links  congenial  rnind  to  mind, 
I  know  a  feeling  lives  with  thee, 

Which  binds  thee  closely  to  thy  kind, 
And,  free  as  roams  the  viewless  wind, 

Thy  social  spirit  roams  abroad, 
Forever  ready  and  inclin'd 

To  help  the  meanest  child  of  Grod  ! 


We  live  not  for  ourselves  alone — 

Our  duties  are  not  bound  by  home — 
Wherever  Error  builds  a  throne, — 

Wherever  Sin  or  Sorrow  come, — 
Our  duty  leads  us — as,  whilom, 

Was  led  the  sage  of  Gfalilee, 
Dispelling  Sin  and  Sorrow's  gloom, 

And  setting  Mind  from  error  free. 


An  influence  to  all  is  given — 

Each  grain  of  sand,  each  drop  of  dew 
Asserts  that  common  boon  of  heaven, 

And  observation  proves  it  true. 
The  Poet  has  an  influence  too — 

A  mighty  influence — all  his  own  ! 
All  spheres  of  life  it  vibrates  through, 

From  humblest  cot  to  highest  throne  ! 


TO    MRS.    E  *****  .  207 

Thou  hast  it: — unto  thee  belong 

The  potent  powers  of  Poesy  ; 
Thou  hast  it — at  thy  bidding  throng 

Hopes,  feelings,  aspirations  high  ; 
And  all  the  Poet's  mastery 

O'er  language  and  o'er  thought,  is  thine ; 
'Tis  seen  in  every  melody, 

It  glows  in  every  measured  line. 


Oh !  wield  it— wield  it  as  becomes 

The  master  of  a  mighty  art ; 
Grive  light  and  joy  to  others'  homeS 

To  others  be  a  guiding  chart ! 
Obey  the  impulse  of  thy  heart — 

That  impulse  is  Philanthropy — 
And  act  an  independent  part, 

As  did  the  Sage  of  Galilee. 


Like  hittij  proclaim  eternal  truth — 

No  matter  what  that  truth  may  be — 
'Twill  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 

Despite  each  "Scribe"  and  "Pharisee!" 
Tho'  Prejudice  and  Bigotry, 

And  Ignorance  and  Wrong  assail, 
'Twill  rise  o'er  all  triumphantly — 

For  Truth  is  Power — and  will  prevail. 


208  TO    MRS.    B   *****  . 

In  liquid  lines  of  living  light. 

Be  every  sentiment  expressed  ; 
Aim,  fearless,  at  the  true  and  right, 

And  show  the  world  thyself — confessed. 
Throw  off  the  burden  of  thy  breast, 

Nor  care  upon  whose  head  it  fall, — 
Whether  on  Potentate  or  Priest, 

It  matters  not — if  meant  for  all. 


Oh !  say  not  that  persuasive  strains 

Can  never  "  mend"  the  human  heart : 
Their  healing  balm  it  long  retains, 

Ay,  cherishes,  till  life  depart. 
If  not,  vain  were  the  preacher's  art, 

The  sage's  truth,  the  poet's  lay, 
And  vain  were  every  moral  chart, 

From  Plato  to  the  present  day ! 


The  mightiest  moral  lever  known, 

Is  Truth,  in  love  and  kindness  spoken. 
It  shakes  the  pillars  of  the  throne — 

The  toils  of  sin  by  it  are  broken : 
Of  honesty  it  is  the  token, 

The  pledge  of  motives  pure  and  high ; 
And  by  its  influence  are  evoken 

The  virtues  of  humanity. 


TO    MRS.    E  *****  .  209 

It  was  the  power — the  only  power, 

Employ'd  by  him  of  Nazareth, 
To  sweep  the  evils  of  the  hour, 

As  with  the  Siroc's  blasting  breath. 
No  moral  power,  the  heavens  beneath, 

May  with  the  power  of  Truth  compare : 
The  Wrong"  it  ever  dooms  to  death, 

The  Rig-lit  it  strengthens,  everywhere ! 


Oh  !  breathe  it — breathe  it  in  those  words 

Which  echo  in  the  soul  forever ! 
And,  like  the  melody  of  birds, 

Weary  the  raptur'd  senses  never. 
Resistless  as  a  mountain  river, 

'Twill  sweep  in  full  career  along; 
Impell'd  by  every  high  endeavor, 

And  swell'd  by  each  succeeding  song. 


The  work  is  glorious — arid  the  power 

Is  vested  in  the  human  soul ; 
Before  its  might  shall  Error  cower, 

And  Truth  be  spread  from  pole  to  pole. 
The  Tyrant's,  Bigot's,  dark  control 

Shall  totter  to  its  final  fall ; 
And  round  the  world  the  thunders  roll 

Of  Truth — triumphant  over  all ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  372823    3 


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